#sorry I’m rapping it’s the sleep meds kicking in

[crybaby-bkg]

cw: Bakugou dies but comes back to life, “comes back wrong” trope, implied fighting, angst

When Bakugou died, you’re not sure how you went on living. Grief had taken over your life, sat you in the passenger side while it cruised off the highway into icy waters. And even then, you couldn’t find the energy to drown.

It’s why there’s a sudden uptick of energy when you’re promised to have him back. Some top scientists contact you months after his death, tell you to hurry down to the headquarters labs, come and rejoice for what you’re about to witness. And you’re horrified, to say the least.

“This isn’t my husband.” Are your first words when you walk in, watch the figure on the other side of the glass examine its own hands. It looks like your husband but—but his hair isn’t the right shade of blond all over. His nose bridge had a slight bump after a scuffle with a villain. He had a scar on his hand but—but it never looked like it was to sew a pinky beside the other fingers.

“Is that really my husband?” You ask next in disbelief, slowly entering the room. Bakugou’s head snaps up, his eyes a little brighter than you remember but—they hold so much emotion. So much memory, so much panic, so much guilt.

“I left you.” He mutters, his voice raspy and ragged, and you wonder if it’ll always be like this now. It makes you cry a little harder than it should, but you only embrace each other. He’s cold and his shoulders don’t hold the same mass and his back doesn’t carry the same scars. There’s one, jagged and rough, running down his back, and you think, you think that’s where they slipped a new spine in.

“Welcome back home.” You tell him, weeks after meeting him again, new and not totally—Katsuki. He’s stiff and he doesn’t immediately take off his boots when he enters, and it worries you. Makes you think if you’ve just let a stranger into your home, one that has stolen your dead husbands face. Makes you wonder if he’ll be as loving as Katsuki once was, or if he’ll become your monster looming over you with the guilt of not being able to rest anymore.

“I’ve missed you so much.” You whisper against his mouth one night, a little while after he’s moved back. You don’t know why you lay under him, why you let him nestle himself inside of you, why you let him hold you against his chest. Katsuki always ran his hands over your cheeks and neck whenever he held you like this, but this…man, only holds himself up with his hands resting beside your head. It’s alien, how he looks at you, how his hips are methodically measured with every thrust, how he kisses you every 8 seconds. You wonder if he’s more robot than Frankenstein monster.

“Why did you come back to me like this?” You ask him one night, barricaded in the bathroom away from him. You can hear his sobs on the other side, his pleading to be let in. He tells you he never wanted to come back if he had to be like this, that he’s sorry, please let him in, he misses the warmth of your skin, he’s never been so cold before, he’s never liked the cold.

“Is this considered cheating?” You ask yourself aloud one night, when Bakugou is forced back to the lab when he becomes too…un-Bakugou. To sleep with a man that is your husband in every way but? Your husband has been dead for a year now, and yet you stroke the chin of the man that tries so hard to be him everyday, but fails so miserably at it every time.

“I’ll come back to you right this time.” Bakugou promises to you when he’s strapped down to leave for the lab and before he’s sedated. But you don’t believe him—you never did. Your husband is dead, and this animated corpse has been nothing but a cheap mockery of everything you’ve lost and something you will never truly get back.

#I was writing this and then checked my dash and saw another post about this #and felt so guilty and almost didn’t post it aidjdkfj #but I love this trope too much to delete it!!!!! #I’ve written about this in my published book before and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written #there’s just such a deep heartache about having to grieve someone #and then the grieving process being interrupted by the one you lost #and battling with their death even though you still look at them everyday again #but it’s just not right?? it’s not the same?? #they have the same face (kinda) but it’s truly not hem #not them* heck #it reminds me of a convo I had in a psych class about making a new cloned version of yourself #where the question was ‘is the clone/new version still you? or are they an entirely new person now?’ #and at first I said they’re still me you know? they have my face n body n memories #but my prof told me no!! after they have been cloned they are sentient and are now their own person making new memories apart from you #and I thought that was soooo interesting and it makes me fall in love w this trope every time #you’re my person but only a version. you’re who I love but a newer person. you’re not them. you’re everything I’ve missed about them #so heartbreaking I LOVE ITTTT #sorry I’m rapping it’s the sleep meds kicking in #okay bai #bakugou treats! 🍬 #—new treat in the streets! 🍫

[the-drakeboys]

Wait for Me

Summary: You were just two people who’d spent six months watching each other from afar… Both working on base, passing one another, sending smiles and smirks as if no one else could see them. 

But now, as he prepares to be deployed on his first mission, you and Private Jack Mitchell finally fall into each other, entirely unready for how connected you’d truly feel once you did.

Pairing: Pvt. Jack Mitchell x Reader

Word Count: 1,951

Warnings: None really for this one…. Fluffy, a TINY BIT nsfw… just one soldier bein’ attracted to another. :3 

A/N: Hey, guys! So… this’ll be a momentary departure from my Sam work…! This’ll be tagged as ‘not uncharted’ and ‘cod: aw’ if you’d like to blacklist it. I just sort of love Jack, he’s wonderful. The game didn’t have nearly enough of him (forever salty @ Sledgehammer Games…) but what we did get of him was genuinely wonderful. Please let me know what you think -- thank you so much for reading!

If you’d like to read my other works, here’re my Uncharted Masterlist and Supernatural Masterlist!

---

The first time Jack touched your skin, it was like a spark went off beneath the surface, setting you both on fire. Languid dragging of lips over your shoulder and hands pulling your body up against his. His bodyweight laid down into you, his arms holding him just up above you. His eyes searing your soul as they looked down into yours, watching your face as he slowly rolled against you. The way his lips captured yours, sealing your gasp away. 

You were just two people... two people who’d spent six months watching one another from afar. Wanting each other. Sending smiles, and smirks, and coy winks across rooms and open fields. 

You hustled down the sidewalk, the bustling noise of an active military base surrounding you. The shouts of drill sergeants, the roar of planes, the insistent yammering of voices over the PA system as names were called to offices, and instructions and reminders were disseminated to every soldier on the base. 

But you’d been there long enough to know them all by heart; so you ignored them and pressed on toward the on-base hospital where you worked.

“I don’t know, but I’ve been told—!” The sounds of a platoon marching past in a jog met your ears as you came around the corner. A large group of men dressed in their fatigues was coming up past the hospital, and you wouldn’t have given them a second glance if it weren’t for the eyes of one of them catching you off guard. 

He was covered in sweat and clearly in pain from hours of PT, but in the middle of the 40-some-odd men, he was somehow unavoidable. His gaze was glued to you the moment you turned the corner, his brows knitted in thought at first. But as they approached you, their sergeant still yelling the rhymes at them to keep them moving, his thoughtful, exhausted expression melted into a charming smile. 

You couldn’t help but smile back as he passed you, your pace slowing just a tad. You tried your best not to look back at him, but failed when you heard his sergeant yell, “Mitchell!”

The voice made you turn your head, and you felt a giggle bubble up your throat as you realized he’d looked back to watch you walk away — and broken his cadence in the process. He was commanded to drop and do 20 for slowing the men up, and yet he was smiling as he did.

You had to force yourself into the hospital... the smile on your face refusing to dissipate for the rest of the day.

“Please...” Words whispered into his ear as he burrowed himself into your neck, your fingers clutching his bicep and jaw falling open and body writhing beneath his with every move he made. 

His teeth sinking into your skin stole your breath away, and all you could think about were the words, hold still. 

“Shit—!” he hissed, teeth clenching together and brows furrowed. “Goddamnit—“

“Would you hold still?” you demanded, shaking your head and dabbing the alcohol at the cut on his head. He rolled his eyes and glared across the room at his best friend, with whom he’d stumbled into your dorm just ten minutes before. The two of them had gotten a little too drunk off the base, and you were almost asleep when their fists first rapped on the door. They were lucky the woman who’d been dormed up with you had just been transferred to a base down south. 

“Told you I’d kick your ass,” the exhausted boy behind you grinned as he wiped at the blood dripping from his nose. 

“Shut up, Irons,” Jack grumbled, “You got lucky.”

“You love me, Mitchell, don’t deny it.” The words had Jack shifting to get up, nearly causing you to stab him with the tweezers you were using to pull gravel from the cut. 

“Hey!” you snapped quietly, shoving him down into the mattress by his shoulder, “Both of you, shut up! I have five hours to sleep, you jackasses.” 

“Sorry, Private,” Will said from behind you; you could feel the look on his face and just breathed slowly out, holding Jack’s cheeks in your palms.

“You should be,” you muttered, looking down at Jack’s cut. “Now you — hold. still.” 

Jack was suddenly quiet, his eyes watching you as you softly tended to the wound. As you pulled the pieces of gravel from his skin, the slight pinch here and there causing him to wince, you’d gently tap his cheek and promise him you were nearly done. He’d swallow quietly and bite his lip through it, listening to your words. Trusting you. 

And he held still.

As you gently set the bandaid down over his cut, you chanced a glance down into his eyes, your own hand still cupping his cheek. 

And you held your breath. “All done,” you whispered. Jack was holding you in place with that look, making your heart race. 

“Irons, you’re up next,” you mumbled, clearing your throat and stepping back from Jack. 

“Jesus, finally,” Will huffed; but your eyes were still on his best friend as he sat down beside him on the empty bed across from your own. Stuck in a moment you couldn’t break free from. Stuck with him there.

And you fell into each other, skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, fingernails dragging up the outsides of your thighs, head pushing back into the pillows. Sounds echoing through the small room, darkness enveloping your bodies, sensations you’d never felt overwhelming you from head to toe. There was a connection between you that you couldn’t understand, something deep and powerful and tangible. He touched you and you could breathe again... he held you and you gasped his name. And you were consuming him, his every thought dedicated to you, to how you looked beneath him, to how his name sounded rolling off the tip of your tongue, to your smile and your laugh and the way your eyes glinted in the sun. 

But time was never quite on your side.

“Private y/l/n,” Doc Aarons, the surgeon you’d been working with for three years, spoke up from beside you, “You taken your lunch yet?” 

You glanced up from the supplies you were inventorying, in a daze as you murmured, “Not yet, sir.”

He nodded as he pored over his latest med journal, not looking up. “Go ahead and do that now. Thinking I might send you on exam rounds later.” 

“Copy that,” you replied, setting your clipboard down and eyeing the bag of sealed scalpels you’d been counting. 

You were opening the door and stepping outside before you saw him; Jack, smiling at you from just down the hall. 

You glanced back at Doc Aarons and raised a brow, wondering if he’d seen Jack step past the room. He remained involved in his journal, never looking up to acknowledge your silent question.

“Hi...” you grinned as you turned back to Jack, curiosity in your voice and hands on your hips. “Can I help you, soldier?”

He was warm as he walked slowly toward you. “Well, y/n, you tell me.” 

Your arms were crossed, and you felt your cheeks tinting pink at the way he refused to pull his gaze from yours. 

“I’m listening,” you murmured.

He stopped just a foot in front of you, nerves buzzing under the surface as he looked down at you. The look in your eyes had his heart threatening to pound from his chest. 

“See, I’m... deploying in the morning. Big mission, lots of us goin’ out.” He cleared his throat, and you were fighting to keep your smirk back. “And I was thinkin’ it’d sure be a shame if I didn’t get to take you out before I left.” 

His words pulled the smile right back out onto your lips. “Is that so?” 

He chuckled and ducked his head, feeling the way you teased him set his nerves alight. 

“Well, good... I think it would be, too.” 

He looked up, and god, how it felt to see him look at you that way. 

“Sounds good, Private,” he murmured softly, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

And it wasn’t until he walked away, disappearing around the corner as your fingers rested on the spot on your cheek his lips had touched... that you realized you’d been standing in front of the large window of Doc Aaron’s office the whole time. Your head snapped to the left, and he flicked his journal up in front of his face just in time, his own smirk in full effect behind its flimsy pages.

You blushed and scurried down the hall, still feeling Jack’s kiss on your cheek right where he’d left it.

It was deep in the night, only an hour left before he had to get up and get moving to make his briefing call. You both laid in the quiet, tangled up in each other, motel sheets wrapped around your limbs. There was nothing like the way it felt to be in his arms… to feel him hold you tightly against him. You fit together like puzzle pieces.

He smiled lazily up at you, biting his lip and reaching up to brush your cheek with his thumb. “You gonna miss me?” he smirked up at you, murmuring his words.

You grinned down at him, both your palms pressed to his bare chest. “How could I miss you?” you lied, “I barely know you...” He gave a laugh that sent butterflies fluttering through your stomach, the coy look in your eye nearly being betrayed by the warmth he made you feel. 

There was a long pause, his eyes staring up into yours. He was gathering words... trying to find them. And finally... with a swallow, his hand moved to your wrist, bringing your palm up to his lips where he pressed a single, soft kiss. 

“Wait for me, then...” He stared up at you, meaning every word. His lips soft against your skin. “Let me take you on a second date.” 

His words hit you hard, and you bit your lip to contain the smile spreading over your lips. Cupping his cheek, without another moment of thought, you muttered, “I’m not goin’ anywhere, soldier.”

Just four short hours later, you stood outside the med building, one hand shielding your eyes from the sun, as you waited and watched for his plane. Something sunk into your stomach, a dread. Worry. You were a soldier yourself, one who’d been aching to go into combat someday if they’d ever let you — but somehow even then, there was something nagging at you. Something bothering you about watching him go.

And you felt it settle into your bones as your eyes finally caught the first of the planes taking off. You watched him deploy out on that mission, and your heart was relentless in your chest. He and his fellow marines - he and his best friend, Will - were off for Korea, off to enter combat for the first time.

You felt something ache inside you. It was all you could do not to let tears well up in your eyes as you watched him go.

You barely knew anything about him... you didn’t know if he’d ever broken any bones, or if he had siblings, or who his favorite comic book hero was. You’d hardly gotten to know him yet... but feeling that sudden, violent pull inside of you, begging you to run blindly after that plane as it lifted off the tarmac — that was the most terrifying feeling you’d ever known. 

--

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#not uncharted #cod: aw #call of duty: advanced warfare #jack mitchell #private jack mitchell #private jack mitchell x reader #jack mitchell x reader #call of duty #fanfiction #my writing #fanfic #advanced warfare #troy baker #this is all his fault #i can't stop thinking about how GOOD THIS CHARACTER IS #anyway i'm suffering #love y'all!

[lonelypond]

A Coffeeshop Christmas Carol, Ch. 6

NicoMaki, HonoKotoUmi, Love Live, 2.4K, 6/?

Summary: We see what Professor Sonoda's day is like.

An Umi Day

A yawn. Soft hair tickling her nose. Honoka probably, Umi thought, smiling. Had the alarm gone off? No, something else had woken her. Umi opened her eyes. Kotori was staring, a lost look in her eyes that worried Umi. Perhaps New York was lonely and that was why Kotori was pushing them to spend the holiday there?

“Kotori?”

“Eeep?!?!?!” An adorable jump accompanied the squeal. Kotori wrapped her kimono closer, the cranes flying across the blue a soothing morning view.

“Is there something worrying you?”

Kotori shook her head, biting her lip. Umi considered kicking Honoka awake, but decided Honoka needed sleep and Kotori needed some individual attention. Their relationship was a garden Umi tended carefully.

“Let’s talk over coffee.”

“I wanted to visit that coffeeshop today.”

Umi grabbed her bathrobe, glancing back at a soundly sleeping Honoka. Bakery hours and Kotori time made for long days.

“Why don’t we let Honoka sleep in and come back and surprise her with our ratings of her pastries? She’s been perfecting her cheese danishes.”

“Ooohh.” A gleam in Kotori’s eye. Umi was pleased.

“Just give me five minutes.”

“What about your exercises?”

“I will do a warm up form while you pick your coat for today,” Umi pulled Kotori into a tight hug. “And we can walk briskly. I’m sure you will need to burn some calories in advance.” Umi teased lightly, relishing the feel of Kotori relaxing into her embrace. Perhaps it was time for an adjustment in the geographical distribution of their relationship.

###

Umi paused and lowered her violin. She had been demonstrating the different effects of bouncing a bow sautillé or spiccato on an Antonio Vivaldi piece but Nana Nakagawa was paying no attention, very unusual for the usually diligent sophomore.

“Nan, is something concerning you?”

Nana’s expression turned discomfited and she lowered her own bow and violin, gray eyes wide behind her glasses. “My apologies, Professor Sonoda. I am allowing other concerns to distract me.”

Umi gestured to a stool with her bow, sitting herself to encourage Nana to engage, “If you are preoccupied with something serious enough to disturb your focus, perhaps discussing it will help.”

Nana sat and said nothing and Umi was about to pick up her bow and begin again when words rushed out of her pupil, “I scheduled an audition after this, for a singing role, and I’ve never done anything like that before, well, never on a public stage, just in choirs and choruses and I don’t know what to do, or if I want to stay on the conducting track, but nothing feels like singing...at karaoke, even, just the way people NOTICE…” Gray eyes were gleaming and the bow was conducting an imaginary audience.

Ah, Umi could make a jump from those clues. “So you’re auditioning for A Christmas Carol and…”

Umi hoped her pupil's speeding words would continue.

“If I like it, really like it, what am I going to do, my parents already had to deal with me not being an engineer or a pre med, will they just think I’m a dilettante? I can’t tell them, Professor Sonoda, I just can't, but if I get a part, I’ll have to explain why I’m staying on campus.”

Time to interrupt the panic. Raising a hand to quiet Nana, Umi spoke,“First, audition. Do your tasks in their proper order. There may be nothing to tell your parents.”

Her audience doubted that statement but was willing to devote some thought to it, “So don’t plan my post audition life yet?”

Umi nodded, “Exactly. You are worrying about conversations that may not be required. You should save your energy and focus on communicating to Professor Yazawa your suitability for a role.”

Nana zoomed back to panic, pale face, shaky hands, never good for a violinist. Umi sighed. Time for a task they could succeed at. Confidence carried forward. Umi put her violin in its case, indicating her pupil should do the same.

“Let’s take a moment to analyze this piece. The composer has done some very clever things with the general arrangement.”

Nana leaned forward, switching her bow for a pencil, eyes intent on the pages before her, all worries lost in the challenge of music.

###

“UMI!” Honoka’s voice always gladdened Umi’s mood. The door of her office swung open with a vigor no one else could manage. “Thanks for letting me sleep in. Kotori’s got a bunch of business calls so I brought you lunch.” Honoka pulled Umi into a hug that neither of them wanted to break, Umi enjoying the comfort of a never too familiar warmth and strength. “How’s your day?”

Umi hugged tighter, surprising Honoka.

“What’s wrong, Umi?”

Umi broke the hug, but Honoka’s bright blue eyes maintained the warm connection.

“Other people’s worries.”

Honoka nodded, “Yeah, it’s that kind of a day, isn’t it.” Honoka closed the door and set two sandwiches on Umi’s desk, carefully spreading two cloth napkins first, “Nozomi was kinda grumpy and sad when I stopped in to see if she needed to reorder any pastries.”

“How was Kotori?” Had Honoka noticed anything? Or had Kotori hid her worries. Their coffeeshop conversation had yielded no insights, just Kotori describing the early sketches of her Summer theme.

“Kotori?” Honoka had a sandwich unwrapped, Umi’s lower filing cabinet drawer pulled out to prop her feet on, and a surprised look. “Is something wrong?”

Umi moved her chair next to Honoka, her own sandwich in hand, “I don’t think so.”

“That’s not convincing, Umi.”

Umi chuckled. Honoka always called out her hesitancies, “No, it’s not. Kotori, too, seems to be in a mood.”

“That kind of a day.”

“Seemingly.”

A sharp rap on the door pushed it open and Nico came halfway into the room. “Hi Honoka. Umi, fix your replacement. She doesn’t know anything.”

Honoka leaned her head on Umi’s shoulder, whispering, “Grumpus Contagious.”

Umi bit back a giggle. Her replacement? Oh, Nico must mean Maki. Nico vibrated impatiently in the center of the office. And Umi wanted to eat her lunch. Honoka had done something with pumpernickel and mustard from the tantalizing smell and Umi wondered what else had made its way into the combination.

“Are you going to fix Maki or not?”

“What did Maki do?”

“Walked in to my auditions and applauded the first two auditionees.”

“That is unusual.”

“Unusual?” Nico stomped. “It’s rude, it’s problematic, and it gives two freshmen inflated views of their audition.”

“Was it a bad audition.”

“No,” Nico fake punched in the direction of the door, “It was fine, but Nico needs an ensemble leader who is aware of theatrical etiquette.” Nico’s emphasis on the word etiquette snapped Umi out of her Honoka induced laissez-faire attitude. Especially with first year students, proper behavior modeling by teachers was essential.

“I am sorry I did not initially take this as seriously as it deserved, Nico.”

Nico nodded, pleased at the adjustment of Umi's tone.

“I will talk to Maki this afternoon and make sure that she is aware of how auditions and rehearsals are conducted.”

“Make sure you go over tech three times. Nico doesn’t need a rookie who thinks it only takes two hours.”

“I will ensure that Maki performs all of her required duties.”

“Good. Nico is flexible but…”

“There are students involved.”

“Exactly.” That problem solved, Nico smiled at Honoka, “Those look tasty.”

“They are.” Honoka had finished hers, “Nozomi’s going to try them out next week. Kasumi’s a mad scientist with spices and bread dough. It’s fun.”

“She may be busy soon.”

Honoka shrugged, “She’ll probably still come in. Kneading dough works out a lot of stress.”

Umi wanted her private lunch relaxation zone back, “Is there anything else, Nico?”

“Nope, Nico’s good. Sorry to interrupt…”

“Nah, it was good to see you, Nico.” Honoka waved, “Having another speakeasy this Friday. Be sure to come.”

“Nico’s looking forward to it.”

“I’ll let you know how my conversation with Maki goes.”

“Thanks, Umi. See you, Honoka.”

And finally, Umi could relish her lunch treat.

###

Honoka had overstayed her lunch hour and run off to meet a delivery truck. If Umi went to Maki’s studio, she would have no time to practice this afternoon. And today’s rehearsal with Nana had turned into a mostly conversational session, not the duet Umi had planned. No practice time always threw off everything, especially Umi's mood. “Grumpus Contagious” Umi thought as she moved her chair back to its usual spot.

Maybe a carefully worded text to Maki would be a good conversational starter.

U: Nico has expressed some concern that you are lacking an elementary awareness of theatrical etiquette.

Rather than stare at her phone and wait for a reply, Umi would begin her violin warm ups. Perhaps she should be added in more regular vocal practice as well. Kotori seemed very serious about the New York City Christmas Cabaret. Umi had seen glimpses of a dress sketches. It would be an elegant mood.

Phone.

M: I’m fine.

U: Not having any experience with production, you may not be aware of all the quirks involved in staging a show.

M: I’ll read a book.

U: It’s not that simple.

M: I get a schedule, right?

M: You know, I’ll just talk to Nico.

Umi believed that Nico would consider Umi derelict in her duties if after her attempt at educating Maki, the result was that Maki asked Nico 1,000 questions.

U: There will be stage managers. Talk to the production stage manager and have them explain to you how Nico usually works.

M: Production Stage Manager?

U: Nico’s assistant. It’s usually one of the older students. Their job is coping.

M: There must be a book. I’ll look.

U: Directing is difficult, takes time, and Nico does a very good job. Please do not unduly add to her burden.

M: Don’t worry. I got this.

U: I will hold you to that.

M: (^-^)ゝ

Umi nodded. Maki was now aware of the gravity of the situation.

###

This was one of Umi’s favorite classes. An advanced seminar that rotated topics and instructors. Managing An Orchestra was this quarter’s theme. Only half a dozen students: Nana, a sophomore, three juniors, two seniors.

They were discussing Japanese conductors, Hideo Sato and one of his most prominent students, Seiji Ozawa. Umi occasionally wore a white turtleneck under her tuxedo jacket to honor Owaza’s unique style. She had handed out an interview with Owaza from Joshua Jampol’s Living Opera book.

Nana had the floor, “I looked up Hideo Saito, Professor Sonoda, and read that he brought discipline to generally disorganized Japanese orchestras. Is this the first job of the conductor?”

Umi, perched on a stool, considered the question, leaving a space for another student to speak. But it seemed no one else had done supplemental research specifically into Ozawa’s influences. “I think the entire profession has evolved, both in Japan and internationally, and with the rigorous training most professional musicians receive, there is less need to educate them on basic courtesies like preparing for rehearsals.”

Ronna Emem raised a point from the article, “Ozawa quotes Saito and says that “For a conductor, the most important thing is if he can conduct an a cappella chorus. Because every note, every voice is important. Every word is important.” Do you agree, Professor?”

A direct question for Umi to field, “Ozawa says a little later that with the” best vocalists, the voice becomes the best instrument” and I certainly agree with that. For myself, with the violin, I have found much wisdom in Francesco Geminiani’s belief that the violinist’s job was to create “a tone that shall in a manner rival the most perfect human voice.”

“So if you believe all this,” Ronna leaned forward, “why do we spend most of our time conducting instrumental ensembles and not vocal ones?”

Umi blinked. Advanced seminars allowing opportunities for the teacher to learn from the students was why they were her favorite type of class.

“That is a very sound point, Ronna. And one which I believe requires a review of our current conducting curriculum. So what would each of you like to see added?”

###

Umi was still perched on the stool, mulling her students’ suggestions. Her next meeting with Director Minami would be a challenge. She would have to make time to prepare a thorough presentation.

“Did you talk to Maki?”

Her students had left the door open and Nico had bopped in, looking wearier than earlier.

“Are your auditions over? I trust they went well.”

Nico waved a hand, not to be distracted, “Maki?”

“We have agreed that she should not put any extra burdens on you.”

“And she said? You did talk, right?” Nico leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, suspicious.

Umi shook her head, “Text.”

Nico rolled her eyes, “Nico has to do everything.”

“I did suggest she talk to a stage manager.”

Nico’s eyes lit up, “That’s a great idea, Umi. Nico will assign one to babysit her.”

Umi thought that would be best because (^-^)ゝaside, there was no way that Maki was going to initiate a conversation with a student she didn’t know.

“Maybe don’t call it babysitting?” Umi offered hesitantly.

Another dismissive hand wave, “Nico handles more divas than you. Don’t help.”

Umi shrugged. As soon as Nico stopped talking, Umi could go home. So if the conversation continued, it would not be because Umi spoke.

Nico pushed off, “Thanks for the stage manager idea. Let Nico know before you head out for the holidays. Will you be in town for Thanksgiving?”

“I believe so.”

“Stop by for Friendsgiving carolling. The more the merrier. And the less isolated the students who aren’t welcome at home feel.”

Nico was much more involved in the lives of her students than Umi, but productions were a much more intense environment than classes. And Nico, having cared for young siblings from a young age, had mastered a quirky aunt vibe that made some of the most skittish students willing to be chivvied and teased by her. Umi wondered if that pushiness would also charm the reclusive Maki.

“Honoka and I will plan to be there; I’m not sure if Kotori is heading back to New York before then.”

“All are welcome. Spread the word.” Nico blew a kiss, “Thanks, Umi. See you Friday.”

Umi waved, no longer paying attention, thinking once again about how to approach expanding vocal opportunities on campus. Nico would surely relish adding a full scale musical to the performance repertoire.

A/N: Tired, obsessed with Romeo and Juliet (have you watched Romeo X Juliet, they give her a sword and a secret identity), and not going to rush this because I love backstage stories.

#NicoMaki #Love Live #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #nana nakagawa #setsuna yuki #HonoKotoUmi #kosaka honoka #sonoda umi #minami kotori #A Coffeeshop Christmas Carol #Christmas #Theatre #etc.

[samlicker81]

Lucky | Part 4

Sam X Reader

Summary: You’re unlucky in love when you find a lost wallet outside a bar and are smitten with the photo on the ID inside.  Could your luck have turned, or have you found yourself in the middle of something unfortunate?

Warnings: descriptions of injuries, cursing

Word Count: 2.1K

Series Masterlist

You don’t stop running. Even when you hit the tree line.

You’re finally forced to when you catch the toe of your muddy sock on something and pitch forward. You let out a clenched scream when you automatically catch yourself with both hands and pain shoots through the swollen, purple fingers of your left hand. You yank the cloth from your mouth with your other and lean over to finally retch.

You can’t hear the sounds of fighting anymore, but you still don’t feel safe enough to exit the cover of the woods to try and flag someone down on the road. You clutch your stiff left hand to your chest and keep moving.

The adrenaline burst of your escape is waning. Your steps become uneven as you start feeling more of the pain and dizziness from your injuries. You stop to lean against a tree and heave again, bringing up nothing but stringy saliva and hot bile. You look up, considering the road again, and see what looks like a gravel driveway perpendicular from where you stand.

The car comes into view as you stagger forward. It’s black and old. And familiar.

Long arms close around your shoulders and waist from behind. You can’t muster more than a whimper.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, Y/N. You’re safe now.”

The arms scoop you up as your body collapses and then you’re sliding into the backseat. The alarm bells are still blaring in your head. You feel anything but safe, but the fight is out of you. The car is loud, your ear pressed to the leather seat, and the movement makes your head spin. You groan, keeping your eyes squeezed shut and wishing you would just pass out again.

“She better not yack back there,” you hear over the roar of the engine.

“Hand me some water.” The other voice comes from above your head. “Oh, and the ashes.” The smell of campfire fills the car. There are hands pulling gently at each of your limbs, turning them over, and setting them back down.  A large warm hand is at the back of your neck lifting your head. “I need you to swallow these. It’s just some stuff to help with the pain.” Three pills press past your lips, followed by the metal edge of a canteen. You groan again as your head rests back down and then you feel fingers lifting the hair around the lump at the back of your head.

“Hospital,” you murmur.

“Don’t worry, we got you. Try to go to sleep,” his voice soothes. A blanket drapes around you and you realize how bad you’re shaking. You feel his hands rubbing at the gash on your wrist. It stings, but you’re slipping away.

-

“I still don’t think we should be stopping yet.”

It’s bright and you keep your eyes squeezed shut as you’re jostled out of sleep and into someone’s arms.

“I need to get her cleaned up so I can splint her hand, Dean. It’s daylight, and if the ashes didn’t work, we’d know by now.” His voice rumbles in his chest against your ear. Your whole body is throbbing, but your head especially. You’re grateful when the light dims against your eyelids and your body lowers onto a bed. A stiff bed, but a bed.

You hear the man identified as Dean grumble and a door click shut. The bed dips near your legs and fingers brush your cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers, “I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to get you fixed up.”

His voice is pulling you from the haze of sleep despite how hard you fight it. You don’t want to feel the fear and pain returning. You feel a sock peeling from your foot. “Do you think you can shower?” You blink your eyes open.

“Greg?” you rasp. You must be hallucinating. You remember the car and his soothing voice and big hands.

He chuckles, stripping off the other sock. “My real name is Sam. I know this is all really confusing and I have a lot of explaining to do, but right now I’m just trying to help you. Your hand is broken, and I want to get you clean before I put fresh bandages on. Can you shower on your own?”

You nod slightly, eyes wide. You can’t make sense of a single thing that’s happened to you, including your rescue. Is that what this is? A rescue? You can’t help feeling, as the saying goes, out of the frying pan and into the fire. The last time you saw Greg, or Sam rather, you nearly called the cops on him. It felt like forever ago now.

Eyeing him warily, you hoist yourself slowly off of the ugly, floral-patterned comforter. You ignore the hands that come up to help you and start walking stiffly to the bathroom. You’re in a small motel room with two full sized beds and a lot of highway noise coming through the thin, yellowing walls. The bathroom is worse than the room with its stained and chipped plaster and questionable black crud on the tiles. The scariest thing in the bathroom, though, is the reflection in the dingy mirror above the sink. Finally getting sight of the physical toll of your experiences brings everything rushing back. Your wide eyes quickly fill with tears.

Your face is puffy, eyes red and purple rimmed. Your hair is wild around your face, pulled almost entirely out of the single braid it had been in during your hospital shift. There are dried rivulets of blood running from the back of your head and down your neck. Your scrubs are turned to a blackish color where blood has soaked into the navy fabric. And where there isn’t blood, there are cakes of mud. Your left hand looks terrible. There are likely breaks in many fingers as well as your hand, but it’s impossible to tell what’s broken and what isn’t with all the bruising and swelling. Your right hand is better off. The gash on the inside of your wrist is the only wound that looks to be cleaned. It was deep and will leave a nasty scar, but the healing has already started.

You start at the rap on the slightly cracked door.

“Hey, you should take some pain meds now, so they’ll have kicked in when I have to work on your hand.” He offers two pills and a metal water bottle through the door.

“I should be taken to a hospital.” You croak, unmoving.

“We’ll talk more when you come out.”

You take the medication from him. You imagine washing up will be hard on your aching body and you could already use some relief. You move to shut the crack in the door and meet resistance. “Sorry, I think you probably have a pretty bad concussion. Just leave it cracked in case you pass out and fall, or you need help.” You meet one green eye through the crack in the door. In one quick movement, you throw your shoulder against the door and turn the lock. He huffs on the other side but backs away.

Your small rebellion feels good, even if the quick movement makes your head reel.

The shower is difficult with one good hand, a tender head, and a tiny bar of soap. The difficulty doesn’t make it any less satisfying. The blood and dirt swirl down the drain with the scalding water. You let some tears fall into the mix too.

You dry your hair gingerly with a towel and then wrap it around yourself. You sigh and crack the door. “Umm…Sam?” He’s already standing on the other side.

“You okay?”

“All I have are my scrubs and- “

“Oh, hang on.”

His hand reaches through the door with a white T-shirt and plaid shorts. “Dean isn’t back yet but these have a drawstring.”

The clothes are ridiculously oversized for your frame, but also ridiculously comfortable. You exit to find him still standing right outside the door. You brush past him and plant yourself back on the bed. He stays put, staring at you, awaiting your cue.

You look up and meet his eyes, “So, your name is Sam?”

His face breaks into an easy smile, “That is your first question?”

“I don’t know where to start. Who the hell you are is as good a place as any.”

“No, you’re right actually.” He grabs a bag off of one of the nightstands and comes to your side, settling to his knees beside the bed. You shift your legs so he can spread the bag open and pull out medical supplies onto the bedspread. “My name is Sam, and my brother is Dean. We both have a bunch of fake IDs like the one you found. Driver’s licenses, badges, government ID, whatever gets us through the doors.” His eyes flick up to your cautious gaze. “We hunt down things that people don’t believe in. Supernatural things. We use aliases to get information on whatever we’re tracking. That’s the gist.” He holds out an open palm for you to place your injured hand into. You keep it held to your chest.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of bullshit- “

He sighs and grabs the forearm of your other hand before you can pull away, holding it out palm up, “You’ve seen it yourself. They drank from you, didn’t they? The vampires?”

“Vampires?” you whisper.

“Yes. I know it’s scary to find out that things like that are real. And to find out the way you did. Most people live their lives blissfully unaware, but some of us aren’t so lucky.” He reaches his palm out again, “I’ll tell you everything, but please let me see your hand.”

You place it in his and hold your breath as he begins wrapping it in a splint. “We’ve been in town hunting these vampires. We’ve had a run in with this particular nest in the past. We offed a lot of them, but not all of them. Sebastian, their leader, got away with the few remaining and we couldn’t find them again. Since then, they’ve got their numbers back up and got our attention again. Exactly what they wanted. Sebastian now has a personal vendetta against me in particular for killing his mate. Vampires mate for life.”

He offers your bandaged hand back to you and reaches for your other. This one is quick. He adds butterfly bandages to hold the laceration on your wrist closed, some antibiotic ointment, and a bandage.

“And now, where you come in. Coincidentally, I meet you twice. I know now that it truly was a coincidence, but you have to understand that in my line of work, coincidences aren’t a thing. Everything has meaning.”

“Everything is suspicious,” you echo venomously.

“Yes. I followed you just in case. I really am sorry about that night.” He looks into your eyes when he says it, squeezing the repacked bag in his long fingers. “I didn’t think you’d recognize the car. I just…I’m sorry.”

“It kind of sticks out,” you spit. The kinder his words, the more the anger bubbles in you. You don’t even doubt the sincerity of his story, however crazy, or his apology. You’re angry anyway.

He huffs out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah, tell that to Dean.”

He moves back a couple of feet and sits on the edge of the opposite bed.  “Anyway, Sebastian took our meetings as interest and targeted you.” Despite yourself, his implied lack of interest stings. “An eye for an eye, my girl for his girl, I guess. He also knew that if he took you, we’d come. That’s our job.” He shrugs. “I saw you run. Thank god you did. We were outnumbered. Losing. So again, we just hurt them. They’re not finished, and Sebastian is still alive.” He sighs and runs a hand through his long hair. His eyes flick back to where you stew. “And that’s the hardest part of this. You have to stay with us. When a fang has your scent, they hang onto it for good. The saffron, cabbage, and trillium ashes helped throw them off for now, and they’re hurt too. But they’re more pissed than ever. They’re not waiting around for another year to get us.”

There it is. You’re captive again. All of your emotion has channeled into pure rage.

“You think- “ you start in a low growl, but the door swings open, the handle meeting the pre-existing dent in the wall behind it. Dean waltzes in, bags in hand, and a rolling cot in tow.

“Dibs on a real bed,” he crows with a grimace, kicking the cot the rest of the way into the room. “For you sweetheart,” he adds dumping the bags at the foot of the bed you sit on. He carries a fast food bag with him and flops in the center of the bed where Sam still sits on the edge.

“Tense.” He mutters with his mouth full of burger.

#finally I can stop writing Greg #Sam Winchester #sam x reader #SPN #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #fanfic #series #slow burn #funny dean

[poor-sickies]

overpower

Another band AU fic, because I don't get tired of this xD

I want to thank @vcepsis for coming up with this awesome idea and for discussing this with me and for helping with so many great headcanons I'm including here. This was fun! I hope you like it :)

*

"Great! You just created a song no one can sing!

"In my defense," Lance answers as he puts down the guitar, "it sounds awesome. And if either one of us ever learns the proper growling technique, this will sound badass. Imagine playing this live!"

Keith shakes his head with an amused expression.

"That's... never gonna happen," he says, "neither of us has a good voice for that."

"Yeah, especially not you, Keith!" Hunk laughs from behind his drum kit. "Your voice is amazing, but way too soft and cute for this."

Keith glares at him pointedly. Well, it was true. But if Keith's voice is soft and fragile, Lance's is too upbeat and poppy. And Shiro's... it could maybe work, if his voice dropped down a couple octaves.

This particular song had been created after Lance's trip back home, when his brother Marco had offered him a USB drive with sine cool music for him to check out. Among other softer things, were a few pop punk and melodic metal bands, and Lance had loved it.

So much in fact, that he had started writing a few songs in that same direction.

And it worked in theory, it did. Je had the lyrics and melody down, and Keith and Shiro were able to make some awesome guitar riffs, along with an incredible solo for Keith. Pidge and Hunk complimented the whole thing with powerful bass lines and drums, and they had a whole new song, completely different from what they had written before.

But the vocals? They were impossible.

As much as they wouldn't admit, their voices leaned a lot more towards pop and softer music. It was good for what they wanted, pop punk with the occasional ballad. This was a whole different backhand for them, and they knew it.

"Ah well," Lance rolls his eyes, "what's another rejected song... we can go back to it someday I guess."

"When you three have decent voices for that," Pidge comments.

*

"Okay, but are you positive you wanna do the show?"' Allura insists, removing her hand from Shiro's forehead. "Your fever isn't very high, but it's there... and you're all sniffly..."

Shiro shakes his head quickly.

"I'll be okay. I'll just take something for the fever and do the show."

Keith frowns, throwing a glance in his direction. When Shiro woke up this morning he was evidently sick, and everyone had told him it would be fine if he wanted to stay in and rest. They could manage with one less guitar for most songs, and Lance could cover for him with his acoustic one for the songs they needed two.

Yet, he insisted he was fine. Just half an hour ago he had taken painkillers for his headache and something for the fever before that, so it was time to take it again.

It's a forty five minute set list, so they can probably get through it, sure. And they'll have the next two days off, except Pidge who still has an exam next week, so Shiro will be able to rest afterwards.

Keith takes one more glance at Shiro, who's already up and around, taking his meds.

He should be fine.

*

"So tonight," Shiro says into the microphone, "we're playing a new song!"

The audience cheers.

Lance immediately turns his head away from his mic to look at Keith.

"We are??" He mouths, utterly confused.

Keith just shrugs, equally lost.

Pidge and Hunk glance at each other, and back at Shiro.

They usually have a set list, and this kind of improv isn't too common. It had happened before, but only to switch the order of what they usually did - never for a new song.

There's a distinctly dopey look on a Shiro's face, and Keith's eyes widen in realization.

"And I'll be singing, because my voice sounds great for this today," Shiro continues.

Shiro may be a little high on painkillers.

"Ohhh," Lance finally understands. He walks over to Shiro. "Hand me that guitar then. I'll handle the rhythm."

Shiro unstraps his guitar and happily gives it to Lance, while Keith stares in horror, understanding what's about to happen. At least Lance is doing damage control. He quickly signals for a very confused Hunk and Pidge in the back.

"Feeling brave today, aren't we, Shiro?" Lance teases. "Whenever you're ready."

*

When they get backstage, Shiro dumps his guitar (gently) on the sofa, and promptly lays down with his eyes closed.

"That was awesome!! Dude!" Lance exclaims, patting Shiro's shoulder, who groans in protest. "I know your voice is fucked up now, but you gotta get better, and you're gonna learn the growl! We need some hardcore music to play live!"

"Yeah, doing this one was pretty awesome," Hunk laughs, as he picks up one of the towels to swipe it across his forehead, "I'm so sweaty but it was totally worth it." He then turns to Shiro, with a small frown. "Are you okay, though?"

"Yeah," Shiro raps out. "Just kinda tired."

Lance winces at his voice. The way it sounds, he knows all too well how bad that's gonna hurt in the morning.

"Geez, your voice sounds -"

"Horrible," Keith interrupts him, coming back from the hallway with a glass of water. "What were you thinking?? You're sick!"

Shiro lifts his head up to look at Keith, and no one can really he sure if the pained expression is just because of how bad he's feeling, or just guilt.

Keith looks angry, but he knows he's just worried. He accepts the glass of water and lays his head down again, closer to Keith's thigh.

When they get to the car, Shiro simply leans against the windows and lets Keith wrap him in his jacket. He leans towards him, grateful.

Hunk glances at the backseat with a hesitant frown.

"So are we still going out for drinks, or-"

"No-" Keith answers immediately, "Shiro needs a real bed now. You guys go if you want, but we gotta head home."

"Yeah that makes sense," hunk mumbles, starting te car, "home it is," he smiles.

*

"Ugh, are you serious, Shiro?? Why did you even perform tonight? You're barely standing-"

Limping into their apartment, Keith guides Shiro to his bedroom, supporting most of his weight, as Shiro didn't seem to be able to walk right in his own. He's either too tired or too feverish, and the last thing he needs is to injure himself by falling face first onto the carpeted floor.

"I'm sorry, Keith," Shiro rasps out.

"No need to be sorry," Keith sighs, partly in relief, as he opens Shiro's bedroom door and drags him to the bed, where he flops ungraciously. "Be right back. I'm gonna get your pajamas."

On the way, he grabs an extra blanket from the living room, and puts some water boiling to make some tea.

When he gets back to the room, Shiro is laying in his side, eyes almost closed, hugging one of his pillows.

"How are you feeling? You think you can get some sleep?"

Shiro shrugs, hugging himself closer. It's more than obvious he's at least a little cold.

"Hey let's dress your pajamas," Keith decides, "you're probably freezing in that shirt, come on."

Shiro obliges, slow and clumsy, but within five minutes he's much warmer. He could almost say he's comfortable, if it wasn't for the horrible headache and his throat feeling like sandpaper and hurting.

Keith leaves to get the tea, and Shiro curls up tighter under the blankets, and then reaches up with his hand to push his sweaty bangs back away from his forehead. Despite how much he's shivering, he's sweating all over and his cheeks feel warm.

He's almost regretting going through with the show at all. Would he feel better now if he had stayed home and rested properly? He wasn't feeling this bad before the show... but then again, he had taken strong meds, that he could only take again in four hours.

Keith comes back with the tea in less than five minutes. Kicking the door open, he walks closer to the bed and sits down slowly, leaning with his back against the head board. "I can stay if you want."

Shiro shakes his head. "Just need to sleep this off. I'll be better tomorrow."

Keith doesn't look entirely convinced, but eventually agrees. He picks up Shiro's phone from his jean pocket and places it on the bedside table.

"If you need anything just ring me, yeah? And try not to talk, your voice is completely wrecked."

"It's not that bad," Shiro grumbles, rolling to his side and pulling the blanket over him, "my voice will be better tomorrow."

It's not.

Shiro wakes up in pain, swallowing takes a lot of effort and talking is impossible.

Actually impossible.

Because when he tries, the only thing that comes out is a raspy weak sound.

He's feverish again, feeling the heated skin of his cheek against the pillow and the familiar ache near the stump of his arm.

It's still a little dark outside, rain pouring like yesterday, but Keith is already up, telling from the quiet steps he can hear coming from the kitchen.

He lets himself go back to sleep for a little, until Keith knocks on the door gently, before going in.

"Hey," he greets, holding a tray with a mug of tea and toast, and closing the door with his foot. "You need to take your meds. Your fever will probably be back soon."

Keith places the tray on the nightstand, and Shiro lets him check his forehead with the back of his hand.

He hisses quietly, muttering under his breath. "Too late," he sighs.

Shiro gets himself into a sitting position gingerly and picks up a pillow to put behind his back, as Keith takes a seat as well in the edge of the mattress.

"How do you feel?"

Shiro only shrugs in response, but even he can tell it's probably not a convincing shrug, and Keith sighs again.

"I told you you were gonna regret it, but I guess you were too feverish to really listen," Keith says, as he hands the warm mug to Shiro.

Shiro only lets out a weak noise with the back of his throat and accepts the tea, both of his hands hugging around the mug to warm up.

"It was kinda cool though," Keith admits as he sits down next to Shiro, pulling the blanket over his legs too, "I mean, definitely don't do it again when you're sick, and if you're gonna do it, please learn the proper growling technique, but yeah."

Shiro smiles tiredly, and leans back. Keith's tea always tastes nice, but right now he's not really sure he wants to put his throat through more torture. Swallowing hurts, a lot, to the point that even talking is exhausting, and he's not even hungry.

"You have to put something in your stomach with those meds, Shiro," Keith insists gently, shoving the tray a little closer to him, "just small sips, and then eat some of the toast."

Shiro coughs slowly, trying not to jostle his throat more than necessary.

"Glad today is a day off," he manages to say, leaning backwards with a tired smile and his eyes closed, before finally taking a sip from the tea.

"Definitely," Keith chuckles, "but next time please just take it easy, will you?"

#vld #shiro #keith #illness #sore throat #fevers #band au #m #a writes #fanfic

[fanficsandfluff]

Emotions Get the Better (7)

You went back to work after the weekend, and all your coworkers were crowding around you to ask what that big bandage was on your forehead. You couldn’t count the number of time you said you slipped coming down the stairs in your apartment building and cracked your head open. No one questioned how the positioning of the cut didn’t exactly match the stair falling story. You were thankful. But part of you also wondered if it was helpful to talk about what really happened to you? Put it out there that you were assaulted. You decided against it every time, at least around your work friends. 

You were able to perform your job as usual for the next week. You no longer saw Arthur on your normal route, figuring he was reassigned after the shop finally did go out of business. Even without seeing him, you still thought about him.

Getting on the train late at night was starting to become routine again after a few days. You just kept yourself vigilant, not allowing your eyes to even flutter from tiredness, no matter how lulling the shaking of the subway car was. The added protection of a switch blade in your purse did also ease your anxiety. But no matter what time of day you were walking to work, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following you. So you kept your pace brisk. That was one type of anxiety that needed more help abating.

When a Monday came around after a little over a week, you knew the minute you woke up you were going to have an off-day. Your period came, the cramps were pulsing every now and again, you had an early morning shift, and for fuck’s sake you were thinking about Arthur again. You were thinking about him with his bloodied nose, then about him in his Carnival the Clown getup, then about his face the morning you woke up in his apartment and how--how soft it looked.

Fuck, you’re lonely and desperate, you thought to yourself as you rubbed your palms into your eyes and threw yourself out of bed. 

You wound up being a bit crankier than usual at work. Your period pains weren’t alleviated by much, and your meds weren’t controlling your hormones as well as they usually did. It happens. You knew it did. Could be from a slight change in diet to sleep schedule, it’s happened before. 

After work, it was late afternoon and you took the train past your usual stop. You took a walk as the sun was setting over Gotham to Arthur’s apartment building. You stood outside of it for probably a bit too long before you followed a mother and her daughter inside the building. 

“Thanks,” you said with a small smile when she held the door open for you. You went over to the mailboxes and you realized you didn’t know Arthur’s last name. Shit, how were you gonna figure out which apartment he lived in. Well, you remember going up the elevator, so he wasn’t on the first two floors. 

“Excuse me,” you asked the same mother who unknowingly let a complete stranger into the building, “Do you know an Arthur? I’m trying to get to his apartment, but I don’t know the last name.”

She paused, scanning you up and down before pulling her daughter closer to her, “There’s an Arthur on my floor. He lives with his mother. Is that the one?”

“Probably, yeah. Thank you,” you said and then walked to the elevator with the woman and her daughter and another building resident. 

The elevator creaked and made many concerning noises on the bumpy way up to the 4th floor. 

“The other end of the hall,” the woman told you when you got off together. 

“Thank you again. Have a nice day,” you wished her well before heading down the opposite end of the hall. 

You got to a door with the name Fleck written on an insignia above the peephole. Arthur Fleck? Jesus, what a rough last name. You gave three raps on the door and waited. 

You heard two different voices from inside but couldn’t pinpoint what they were saying. Then you heard some unbolting of locks and the door was pulled open to reveal Arthur.

You smiled upon seeing him, also seeing he just got out of the shower because his hair was wet and combed back. He was wearing a tight long-sleeved shirt and very loose sweatpants. You may have been staring at his protruding ribs for a bit longer than normal.

“Oh hey,” was the first thing out of his mouth, and he leaned up against the doorframe. 

“Hi, Arthur. Sorry to just show up like this, I just---” I’ve been thinking of you every minute of alone time I have.

“I just wanted to come by and ask if you were free this Wednesday night, maybe?”

“Oh--”

“To take you up on your offer. For dinner...” you jumped over his minor exclamation. You were wringing your hands together by your waist, getting nervous. 

Arthur’s eyebrows rose and he looked genuinely surprised. 

“You wanna--- with--- Yeah!” he said, a smile splitting his face. You saw crooked teeth.

“Yeah?” you found yourself smiling back, “Oh good!”

You both shared a silence and you looked down at his ribs again, then at his knees.

“Do you want to come in, or...?” Arthur pointed behind himself.

“No!” you didn’t mean to say it so forcefully, “No, I’m going to head home. I just--- yeah, right,” you dug through your purse and pulled out a bent pad of paper and a pen. You ripped the first page from it and handed it to Arthur. He took it from you.

“You can just come over to my place. That’s the address. I’m gonna cook dinner if you’re okay with that.”

“That sounds perfect,” Arthur said.

That intriguing twinkle was in his eyes again as you looked at him. 

“Happy, who’s that at the door?” a strong voice came from deeper inside the apartment. 

“No one, mom,” Arthur yelled back at her and then looked at you again, “Thank you.”

Thank you for what? You didn’t dwell on it much, the larger thought was why his mom called him Happy. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you Wednesday,” you said and backed out of his doorway before walking back towards the elevator. You paused there and saw him lingering in the doorway to watch you. 

Down was easier than up, so you gave him a wave and walked down the stairs beside the elevator instead. 

The whole trip home you were beating yourself up over how stupid you acted. You were freaking timid! You’ve never been timid one day of your life. And nervous and stuttering.... what the hell was all that? As you kicked off your shoes and hung your purse up in your entryway, you blamed it all on your hormones that day. It felt so dumb and sexist to even say that, but it was the truth. 

You fell asleep that night with your windows open, a chilling breeze from outside making your bed feel all the more cozy. 

#arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #reader insert #joker #you ask him out #soft #joker x reader #arthur fleck x you #joker x you #arthur fleck x y/n #joker x y/n

[thegoodthebadthesickly]

Stitches- Winn Schott

A filled request from my Wattpad for @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: DCU/Super Girl

Request: Stitches

Requested by @ MANGO_CHEESE_ on Wattpad

(Stars are complete, Swirls are requested)

I'm sorry if this is incredibly out of character; I've only seen a few episodes of Super Girl and am mostly going off of what I know from Tumblr! Please don't hate me if this is awful!

"You couldn't have let the bullet proof alien take the, you know, bullet?" Alex asked, dabbing alcohol onto a sterile pad.

"It was instinctual; plus, it's just a flesh wound." Winn defended. He tried not to look at his arm, he already felt woozy and he definitely didn't need to add passing out to his rap sheet.

"This time," Alex admonished. "a few inches over and you could have been looking at permanent nerve damage." Alex brushed the sterile pad across the gash on Winn's arm, blotting away as much of the blood as possible.

"Agh!" Winn hissed. "Warn a guy!"

"Would it have hurt any less if I'd warned you?" Alex asked, her voice echoing off of the walls. They were the only two in the med bay right now, everyone else was still somewhere in the city and fighting yet another crazy guy in a suit of armor. When Winn had gotten shot she'd basically dragged him back to the DEO.

"That's not the point." Winn blushed and rolled his eyes.

"If you thought that was painful, you're really gonna hate me for this next part. You need stitches." Alex sucked at her bottom lip.

"No-no. I don't think so. It's not even that deep. Just slap a band-aid on me and send me home." Winn laughed nervously, trying to push himself off of the hospital bed. This turned out to be a bad idea when Winn was reminded, by a blinding pain in his right arm, that he had indeed been shot recently.

"Agh!" He yelled, grabbing his arm and falling back against the pillow. "Dammit!" He cried, tears clouding his vision.

"You know, for a genius, you can be pretty dumb sometimes." Alex cringed.

"Hey! You can't be mean to me, I just got shot!" Winn groaned.

"And who's fault is that?" Alex asked, spinning around on her stool and getting up to go find a suture kit.

Winn grumbled something that Alex didn't quite catch.

Honestly, Alex was glad to have Winn back here where he couldn't be hurt anymore. Everyone that fought beside her and Kara was either bullet-proof or highly trained in combat. Winn was neither of those things. He was just so soft and human. Alex would be lying if she said that the thought of him getting hurt hadn't kept her up at night, especially after night's like this, when he was too brave for his own good. Of course, she would never admit any of this to anybody, especially Winn.

Alex walked into the medical supply closet and, after searching through a mountain of labeled blue boxes, found a suture kit and went back to make sure Winn wasn't trying to jump out of the window or otherwise escape.

To her surprise, Winn was exactly where she'd left him. On closer inspection, Alex thought he must have been asleep. For the first time all night, Alex really looked at Winn. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, even in his sleep and he was scary pale. Alex swallowed back the ball of fear that was bubbling in her stomach and shook Winn's leg lightly.

"Winn?" She whispered.

"Hmm?" Winn opened his eyes.

"Just wanted to make sure you hadn't died on me. That would be so much paperwork." Alex smirked.

"Nope. Just trying not to think about the hole in my arm. Finding my happy place." Winn laughed, his breath hitching when the movement aggravated his injury.

"Where exactly is Winn Schott's happy place?" Alex asked, opening the suture kit and finding the needle and suture thread.

"It-it's stupid."

Alex figured it was decidedly not stupid, but felt like she shouldn't push.

Both were quiet for a moment as Alex worked to thread the needle.

"All right, on the count of-"

"Woah, woah, woah! Don't I get morphine or something?" Winn jerked away from the needle.

"I thought it was "just a flesh wound"." Alex mocked.

"Flesh wounds still hurt!" Winn exclaimed, his voice rising an octave.

"Alright, fine." Alex put the needle down onto a sterile pad and went to look for the local anesthetic. "Baby" She muttered under her breath as she walked away.

"I heard that!" Winn called.

Alex smirked. She found the stacker where the various syringes and bottles of medication were kept and, picking out the local anesthetic and something for the pain that Winn would surely be in after the adrenaline wore off, she went back to Winn.

"Happy?" Alex asked, shaking the two little bottles of liquid at Winn.

"Don't I get the pill option?" Winn asked, eyeing the syringes in Alex's other hand.

"Oh, so getting shot is no big deal, but a little needle is too much?"

"There is nothing little about those needles." Winn gulped.

"Pony up, Schott." Alex sat back down on the stool and uncapped one of the syringes, putting the needle into the bottle of  codeine and drawing up the liquid.

"Easy for you to say!"

"Shh! I need to focus." Alex hushed Winn. "Don't tense up, it'll only make it worse."

"You're not the one having a needle waved at them. I don't think you get to say anything about being tense."

"Would you rather go without?"

Winn took a deep breath. "Lesser of two evils." He closed his eyes.

"Now, this is codeine, so you're probably gonna feel weird for a while, but it's better than being in pain."

"Let's get it over with." Winn closed his eyes.

"Alright." Alex took a breath and held Winn's arm steady with one hand and carefully aimed the syringe needle into his arm above the wound.

Winn hissed, his breath hitching, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Good. Now I'm going to do the local anesthetic." Alex said, keeping her voice as even as possible.

Winn didn't open his eyes or move.

Alex capped the used syringe and reached over to put it into the biohazard bucket over the bed Winn was sitting in. Once she was settled back on the stool, she uncapped the other syringe and pushed the needle into the rubbery cap of the anesthetic bottle. She carefully drew up the liquid and pulled the syringe out, taking a steadying breath.

"This'll sting." Alex said, aiming the needle closer to the edges of the wound this time. She slowly moved the syringe around the wound, making sure to numb the entire area. When she was done, Alex realized that Winn hadn't moved or spoken for the past few minutes.

"Winn, breathe." Alex commanded, seeing that his jaw was clenched and his breathing was coming in short, shallow gasps.

Winn, seeming to notice that he'd quit breathing for the first time, inhaled deeply through his nose and coughed.

"Go back to your happy place?" Alex asked.

"Ha, yeah." Winn blushed, which was made even more evident by how pale he was at the moment.

"The meds should kick in in a few minutes and we'll get you patched up."

Winn sat back and closed his eyes and Alex grabbed her phone and started scrolling through her messages.

Alex thought Winn Schott must have been a lightweight, which was honestly so predictable, when he started giggling uncontrollably a few minutes later.

"How're ya feeling, Winn?" Alex smirked.

"I have no idea why I'm laughing." Winn giggled.

"I'd say the meds are working."

"Oh yeah. They're working big time!" He smiled.

"Okay, I'm going to start suturing the wound. I need you to stay very still, Winn. Do you understand."

"Yeah." Winn tried to look serious, but sputtered and started laughing again.

Alex couldn't help but laugh with him for a moment before regaining her composure and picking up the needle again. Steadying her hand, Alex started suturing.

After that, Winn was quiet except for the odd giggle. Eventually, he closed his eyes and Alex thought he might be drifting.

"Just go to you're happy place." Alex muttered.

"I's not real."

"What's not real?" Alex asked, pausing her stitching and looking up at Winn.

Winn's eyes were half lidded and he was oddly droopy when he spoke, definitely a lightweight. Alex made a mental note to have someone add that to his medical file.

"M'happy place." Winn said, his head lolling to the side as he tried to look at Alex.

"Okay?" Alex said, confused. "What exactly is your happy place?"

"Breakfast."

"Winn, breakfast is very much-"

"With m'parents." Winn slurred, cutting Alex off.

"That could be a memory."

"Nope." Winn was quiet for a moment. "Not this one." He giggled again. "You wanna know m'happy place?"

"Sure, Winn."

"It's, a-it's breakfast with m'parents. Before my dad-" Winn's eyes got darker for just a moment. "It was a Friday night. Saturdays were always pancake days. That's my happy place." Winn slurred. "My dad never put the bombs in the bears and my mom never left. We just had a normal Pancake Saturday."

"That's, um, wow. That's a good happy place, Winn." Alex stuttered.

Not really sure what to say after that, Alex went back to silently suturing Winn's arm and Winn was quiet too, not even giggling anymore.

"All done." Alex said, putting a strip of sterile gauze over the sutures and taping it in place.

"'M tired." Winn mumbled.

"I'd say the adrenaline finally kicked it. Get some sleep, Winn." Alex patted Winn's arm.

Winn obediently closed his eyes and within a few minutes his breathing had evened out enough for Alex to see that he was asleep. Dimming the lights, Alex left the medbay to go wait for Kara and the others in central command.

Somewhere around an hour later, Alex heard the elevator and stood as Kara and James stepped out.

"Hey. How'd it go?" Alex greeted.

"After you and Winn ducked out, it was just a matter of getting someone in to dismantle the server that was accessing the robot." James explained.

"Basically, I just had to keep the robot busy while someone found the server." Kara chimed in. "Barely even broke a sweat." she smiled.

"How's Winn?"

"Resting. It wasn't as bad as it looked in the field, flesh wound." Alex led them back to the medbay where they could all see Winn sleeping. "Major lightweight when it comes to meds, though." Alex laughed.

"Figures." Kara and James said in unison.

"I'm sure you're both exhausted. Go get some sleep. I'll stay here tonight and make sure Winn doesn't manage to get himself into anymore trouble." Alex said.

"Are you sure?" Kara asked.

Alex nodded.

"Alright. See you in the morning." Kara hugged Alex and went back to the elevator. James waved goodbye and followed closely behind.

Alex stretched and realized how tired she was as well and, after changing into a set of sweats she kept at the DEO for late nights and the odd coffee disaster and curled up in the bed opposite Winn's.

The next morning, Alex was walking Winn to the elevator. One of the DEO doctor's had seen him and given him the all clear to go home.

"So, exactly how much of last night do you remember?" Alex asked.

"Everything's mostly clear after I got shot, until you gave me the shot of whatever that was-"

"Codine."

"Yeah. After that, things get fuzzy. I didn't do anything stupid, did I?"

"Besides take a bullet for a bullet proof alien? No." Alex rolled her eyes and smirked. She'd decided not to mention what Winn had told her last night, he hadn't meant to tell her. It wasn't as if she hadn't read his file when Winn'd been brought on at the DEO, but reducing someone down to a few words never quite told the full story. He could tell her if and when he was ready to talk about it.

Winn huffed a laugh and adjusted the sling cradling his arm.

"I did find out that you're a major lightweight when it comes to meds, though. You're a giggler." Alex laughed.

"Oh, God." Winn smiled ruefully.

"Oh yeah. You're never living this one down." Alex smiled as they stepped into the elevator.

"Aren't you staying?" Winn asked.

"I refuse to work in sweat pants." Alex gestured to her attire. "Also, I'm dying for a hot meal. Care to join me for breakfast? My treat."

"Sure." Winn smiled and nodded and then grabbed at his shoulder, hissing sharply. "Also maybe more meds?"

"Sure thing." Alex said as the doors closed and the elevator started it's ascent.

#badthingshappenbingo #prompt fill #prompt: Stitches

[aethersea]

Must Have Caught a Good Look at You

hey folks, please enjoy this Supernatural au of the Kencyrath! 

They were just dreams. He was fine. Tori had midterms, papers, projects, finals – he couldn’t waste time paying attention to dreams. He poured Red Bull into his coffee and pulled enough all-nighters to make his pre-med roommate cry and ignored them, and he was fine, even if his bones did start to feel like they were made of packed straw and his hands were always shaking. He was fine.

If he woke up in lecture halls and study rooms covered in cold sweat, shaking, with a dead girl’s voice echoing in his ears…well, clearly he just needed more coffee.

There were dreams of killing monsters, monsters that burned when he touched them with slender, unscarred hands, and he told himself they were jumbled memories. There were dreams where alien voices whispered in strange tongues, sussurous words that brushed against his skin like feathers of flame, and longing poured into his soul until he felt he would burst from the grief of it. And there were dreams where he was hiding, hunted, fleeing from a ghost who chased him down endless highways, through the grey remnants of a thousand motel rooms, or through the halls of this university that she had never lived to see. The dreams felt more real than waking sometimes, especially as the coffee-induced haze became a permanent fixture in his life. So when he saw the slight figure standing outside the door to his next class, he didn’t stop to think. He just bolted.

Tori made it down three flights of stairs, across the quad, and into the Earth and Marine Sciences building before he blacked out. He woke up to a circle of concerned faces, his lungs burning and his legs as weak as porridge, and realized that it hadn’t been a dream. In his dreams, he ran endlessly.

In life, however, a month of sleep deprivation had done a number on his ability to get the hell out of Dodge. He struggled to push himself to his feet, waving off the worried bystanders, willing his shaking legs to support him. Someone offered him his water bottle, which had gone skittering across the floor with his fall and fetched up against a nearby wall. Someone else was on the phone – “No he’s awake now, yes he’s standing up but he’s swaying a bit—”

“I’m fine,” Tori insisted hoarsely, shaking the starbursts out of his vision and trying to stagger off, through the circle of anxious faces, away from the wide glass doors that faced into the quad. It was no good, though. As he stumbled backward, his eyes landed on a thin, pale face framed in dark hair, and he froze.

They stood there, silver eyes locked on each other, for what seemed like a very long time. The students around and between them seemed to fade away, their cautious questions reduced to white noise. Tori’s heart was pounding rabbit-fast in his chest, and he felt painfully like a rabbit himself, cornered by a snake.

Finally she smiled at him, small and melancholy, and turned away, pushing through the glass doors into the quad and vanishing into the crowd of students outside.

Tori watched her go with whispers rustling at the edge of his hearing, whispers that he still couldn't understand but which crackled with urgency and fear.

=-=-=-=-=-=

It wasn’t a friendly city at night. The asphalt glistened with oil-slick moisture from a brief, unsatisfying burst of rain; the streets echoed with staccato bursts of hoarse swearing and sharp, drunken laughter. Jame ambled down the dirty sidewalks with her hands in her pockets, watching her shadow as it was handed off from one streetlamp to the next. She didn’t bother being afraid for her safety. Anything in this city that had a shot at hurting her would know better than to try.

She’d known that Tori was hiding from her. All this time she’d been pointing herself at him like a bird points itself north, following the undefinable tug in her belly that she knew without knowing how would lead her to Tori, and it had tugged back, uncomfortable and unwilling, as if trying to pull out of her grip. Her dreams, when they weren’t nightmares, were endless aching rounds of hide and seek, calling fruitlessly for her brother down highways and hallways and a thousand half-remembered motels. She’d known. It shouldn’t have felt so much like being gutted when she saw the abject terror in his eyes.

Jame hugged her arms around the misery that bloomed sharp and keening in her chest. She’d thought – hoped – he’d at least be glad she wasn’t dead.

A pack of drunk college students spilled out of a bar in front of her. Jame stopped rather than try to push her way through them, and watched idly as they sorted themselves out. One of them, a woman with a bright red undercut yelling loudly for her phone as she supported what looked like a dozing lumberjack, caught sight of Jame and gave out a little scream.

Jame raised her eyebrows. The woman giggled nervously. “Didn’t see you,” she stammered. “You’re all spooky and quiet in the shadows and stuff.”

Jame was standing directly under a lamppost.

“Hey guys are we going or what?” the woman demanded, turning away from Jame and shifting the lumberjack’s weight on her shoulder. The woman’s friends all started disagreeing about Uber. Jame watched with growing bemusement as the woman complained at her friends to hurry, trying to keep herself between them and Jame the whole time while pretending not to realize Jame was there. It was a poor performance, filled with increasingly high-pitched exclamations and increasingly anxious glances over at Jame and then quickly away, but then, she was very drunk. Jame leaned against the lamppost, mystified, and waited to see what would happen next.

Finally a car pulled up and the college students flagged it down excitedly. The red-haired woman didn’t get into it, instead doing frequent, slightly slurred head counts under her breath as her friends tried to sort themselves into two groups. The second Uber pulled up while they were still arguing about it, and the red-haired woman started pushing her friends bodily toward one car or another, with a sharp tone in her voice as she did it that brooked no argument. If she was some sort of monster who had recognized Jame as a hunter, surely she’d have just run away by now, rather than stay and play chaperone. Jame had never once met a monster who didn’t regard a pack of drunk humans as nothing more than easy pickings.

The woman watched the first car drive off with longing and relief painted across her face. Then with another frightened glance at Jame, she leveraged the faintly snoring lumberjack into the backseat of the second car, fussed over seatbelts a moment, and then paused, one hand braced on the door frame, the other clenched into a shaking fist. Her breathing had gone fast and a little shallow. After a few seconds, she offered her friends inside a rictus grin of a smile and said, “There’s no room for me unless I sit on Dylan’s lap, I’ll just crash at Sam’s place. You guys go on home.”

Her friends protested, but she slammed the car door and rapped on the roof. The driver, presumably eager to get rid of their drunk cargo as soon as possible, pulled away from the curb without hesitation. Only after the last echo of the motor had faded did the red-haired woman turn, unwillingly, to face Jame.

She looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, though Jame thought she might look younger without the heavy eyeshadow and smudged crimson lipstick. She wore what Jame, in her ignorance, had to assume were normal clubbing clothes – a sparkly green halter top and an asymmetrical miniskirt over leopard-print leggings, with black combat boots that could probably kick a man’s teeth in with one blow. She had a tiny black purse slung over one shoulder and absolutely no fangs, claws, or aura of general menace that Jame could discern.

But then, neither did Jame, with her hands safely gloved.

The woman fidgeted with her purse’s clasp, worried at her lip, and studiously avoided making eye contact while Jame looked her over. After a few minutes she blurted out, “If you’re going to kill me, could you please make it quick?”

Jame snorted. “Why, do you have an appointment after this?”

The woman flinched. “No, sorry, I don’t, I mean I didn’t mean, I mean—” She gulped, and took a deep breath. “What do you want from me, my lady?”

Jame raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t been pegged as a hunter then, but as…something else. “What’s your name?” she asked, stepping away from the lamppost.

“Rue. My lady,” the woman added on hurriedly, shrinking back like she would very much like to back away but didn’t dare.

“What are you?”

If Rue was surprised by the bluntness of the question, she didn’t show it. “A selkie. From the ocean. Obviously. Sorry. My lady.”

Selkies: aquatic by nature, rarely spent more than a week on land at a time. Traveled in family-packs of ten to fifty people, territorial but usually on good terms with their neighbors, generally preferred to negotiate than to fight. Never found this far inland unless they’d lost their pelt and been bound to servitude. Powerful shape shifters, could perform assorted minor spells to do with water, luck, and fertility; witches sometimes tried to enslave them as familiars, with limited success.

Jame had never encountered a selkie, not in the month and a half since she had stumbled onto the ashes of Winter’s bar and not in the years she’d spent following her father on hunts as a child. The knowledge appeared in her mind anyway, precise as an encyclopedia, with no associated memory to tell her where she’d learned it. Yet another clue to the delightful little mystery of the gaping hole in her past.

“So tell me, Rue from the ocean. Why should I kill you, quickly or otherwise?”

Rue looked over at her suspiciously, finally making eye contact. “Is that a trick question? Like, do I give you a reason and then you say ‘correct!’ and then you murder me?”

Jame pressed her lips together to hold back a smile. “I suppose that would hardly be very fair of me,” she said gravely. Rue made a face like she agreed but wasn’t about to go saying so, then another face like she’d just realized she’d made that face out loud. Jame wished all the monsters she ran into could be this drunk. This was easily the funniest conversation she’d had all…

month-and-a-half.

“You’re awfully far from home,” Jame said rather than think of that. Rue’s breathing hitched. Did she think that was a threat? “Did someone steal your skin?”

Rue shook her head. “I left it with my dad back when I left home. My lady. My parents sent me to college to learn about plastic and oil. I’m majoring in Oceanography with a focus on conservation and a minor in Material Sciences, because we keep finding poison in the fish and last year my baby cousin almost died when no one caught him eating candy wrappers. Technically selkies can survive away from the ocean for years and years, we just don’t like to, but I go home on breaks and sometimes on three-day weekends if I don’t have too much homework, it’s not so bad.”

Jame wondered if it was the fear or the alcohol that made Rue babble. She still had no idea what Rue was so afraid of. “Look,” she interrupted, “I have no intention of killing you tonight. If you really are just here to go to college, I don’t see why I should kill you at all. But I do need to know why you screamed when you saw me. How did you know what I am?”

Not that Jame herself knew what she was, but every time she’d mentioned that lately it had led to someone laughing at her, then trying to stab her in the face. She’d grown rather reticent as a result.

“Oh, well, I can see auras,” Rue explained in a rush. “It’s why I’m the one who came to college – I can see if someone’s, like, a witch or a vampire or something, and then I can deal with them, or at least avoid them. Usually,” she added with a nervous little shrug. Clearly, that hadn’t worked so well with Jame.

This, too, Jame had heard of, though she remembered where. One of the hunters who stopped sometimes at Winter’s bar had had the gift of it, if a gift it was; he could spot monsters by the afterimages they left in the air when they moved, he’d told her once, different for each kind of creature. He saw things in humans sometimes, too, if they’d brushed up against the wrong sort of darkness. He’d seen something in her and Tori, by the way he’d startled whenever either of them walked into the room, but he’d refused to tell either of them what.

“What do you see in my aura?” Jame asked, genuinely curious.

“Fire,” Rue said somberly, meeting Jame’s eyes for only the second time. “Enough to burn down the world.”

Jame recoiled. Suddenly she was standing in front of Winter’s bar, watching the flames consume the mangled bodies of everyone she’d ever tried to love. She hadn’t had time to dig them graves. Instead she’d splashed alcohol in every room, covered each body she found in gasoline and rock salt from the basement, then set the whole thing ablaze. Child of darkness, her father’s voice rasped in her ear, are you so determined to see us all burn?

In the end, she had.

Jame swallowed bile and breathed deeply through her nose. The city stank of engine exhaust, wet asphalt, stale beer, cigarette butts, but not charred flesh, not dried blood. Jame breathed deep and opened her eyes to find Rue watching her with naked curiosity. “You just…flickered,” the selkie said by way of explanation, waving one hand vaguely. “All the fire kind of went fwoom, all over the place” – she mimed an explosion – “and then just went back to normal.”

Jame drew a shaky breath and shoved her hands in her pockets. “Normal world-consuming fire, you mean.”

Rue made another complicated face, but nodded.

“How many auras like mine have you seen?”

Rue shuddered. “None. My lady,” she added again. “I’ve seen fire, I know what it means, but never more than like, some flames around a person’s head and hands. Never…this.”

Jame stepped forward without meaning to and Rue jerked away, stumbling a little and clutching her purse, eyes gone wide. Jame stopped short, and tried to keep the eager desperation out of her voice as she asked, “So what does fire mean, Rue from the ocean?”

“I–I don’t know, my lady, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said–”

“Tell me,” Jame ordered.

“Demons,” Rue blurted out, clearly regretting the word even as she said it. “Every time, it’s been a demon.”

Jame felt an icy chill wash through her. Child of darkness, monster, hell-spawn. Well, it wasn’t like it was news, exactly. She thought again of Tori’s face, terrified at the mere sight of her, and had to fight the temptation to curl into a little ball and hide.

Rue was babbling again. Jame struggled to tune back in. “—I’ve only seen three demons anyway, it’s not like I’m any sort of expert, I’m sure you’re not really—”

“Rue.”

Rue cut off sharply, watching Jame with trepidation.

“Thank you for telling me. You can…go,” Jame said awkwardly. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”

Rue blinked. “Um. Thank you, my lady.” She stumbled back a few steps, apparently unwilling to turn her back on Jame.

Jame could hardly blame her. With a sigh, she reached for the thread in her belly that would lead her to Tori and pulled. He didn’t want her – why would he? She was a monster through and through, he was better off without her – but their father had died, and he deserved to hear it from her. She would tell him, and then…

And then, Jame supposed, she’d get back on the road and find monsters to kill, or else wander around until they found her. That had worked admirably so far, anyway – something had tried to kill her in nearly every town she’d spent the night, and at several rest stops. Like calling to like, maybe.

If nothing else, the missing years of her life had apparently left her very good at killing monsters.

With a quick little smile for Rue, Jame turned on her heel and, for the last time, went looking for her brother.

.

part two

#kencyrath #finx writes #fanfic #turns out the best solution to writer's block is to add in an new character and make them absolutely stone drunk #part 2 of this will feature tori once more and be out.....idk sometime next week I hope #stay tuned!

[builder051]

If it rains I’ll wear my coat

Bad scribble sketch, but this fic demanded a doodle.  Whoa Bessie (AU featuring Trans Steve and Veteran/Amputee Bucky).  

Contains PTSD and panic attacks.

Steve’s in the middle of talking to a client when somebody knocks on his office door.  He’s set to ignore it and hope whoever it is reads and heeds the in session sign, but after two raps, the knob rattles.  Fury stands in the doorway, his phone to his ear.

The client whips around in her seat.

“It’s ok,” Steve reassures her.  “He’s my boss.”  He gives Fury a pointed look.

“Uh-huh.  Yeah.  One sec.”  Fury holds the phone against his chest as he addresses Steve.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’re busy, but I need to speak to you.  It’s urgent.”

“I apologize,” Steve tells the client as he gets to his feet.  “We’ll reschedule, and I’ll make sure you’re not billed for today.”

“Rogers.”  Fury beckons for him to follow, then resumes his call.  “Yeah, I’ll put you on speaker here in a second.”  He heads for an empty conference room across the hall and kicks away the door stop.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, his heart thrumming as his head works out a thousand different possible situations, most involving James, and none of them good.

“Ok, you’re strong in a crisis, but try not to freak out on me,” Fury starts.  He’s a good manager, and a good man, but it’s times like these when Steve’s forcibly reminded that his supervisor’s experience lies firmly in the realm of physical health.  He respects psychiatry and counseling, but well-intended slip-ups are unfortunately common.

Steve takes a breath, acutely aware of his heart rate continuing to rise.  “Ok.”

“Local PD gives me a courtesy call when they think they’re picking up one of ours,” Fury says, sitting on the edge of the conference table.  “And, uh, today they picked up yours.”

“What?”

“Barnes was wandering around, having a breakdown, and someone called the cops.  They have protocols, but any additional insight helps.  And usually they try to follow our guidance.”

“Oh god.”  Steve’s hand instinctively comes over his mouth.  “Oh shit.”

James is on some street corner falling apart, and it’s entirely Steve’s fault.  He’s gotten lazy and lax, and now there’s a price to be paid.  Guilt hits him like a wallop to the stomach.

They stayed up too late last night.  Steve should’ve put his foot down at midnight, but something about The Rocky Horror Picture Show jogged James’s memory and he started reminiscing about college.  After a year of watching him try and fail to access the details of anything before Afghanistan, Steve couldn’t bring himself to stop him.

Then chatting turned to love-making, which turned to drowsing, which turned to nightmarish thrashing, and the spell had broken at 4:30.  They’d gone to watch TV again, this time in silence.

When Steve had set coffee and a paper cup of pills on the side table and given him a kiss on the forehead, James had looked at him and smiled before glazing over again and returning his attention to Nova.  Steve could claim sleep deprivation or excessive hope and trust, but they’re just excuses.  He should’ve stayed five extra minutes and made sure James took his meds and started the morning right.  But he hadn’t.  He’d left.

“Rogers?”  Fury raises his brows at Steve while he presses buttons on his phone.  “I got Officer Coulson on the line.  He’s a good dude.  We used to work together.”

“Hello?” A voice says from the other end of the line.

They’re on speaker.  Steve needs to pull himself together.  “Yes, hello.  This is Steve Rogers.”

“Ok, Mr. Rogers,” Coulson says.  “We’re responding to call about an individual in distress.  He’s conscious and responsive, but not able to communicate.  Behaving violently toward officers, but scared, and maybe in pain.”

“Yeah, that’s,” Steve starts.  “He does that.  He has PTSD.  He dissociates.”

“We called for an ambulance,” Coulson continues.  “It’s obvious he’s having a medical episode, but I don’t think he’ll respond any better to that—”

“Yeah, he definitely won’t.”  Steve jams his hands into his pockets, closing his fist around his keys.  “I can come get him.”

“Ok, sure.”  Coulson gives him the cross streets.

It’s around the corner from the VA, near the block of apartments where James had lived for a few months when he first returned to civilian life.  “Give me ten minutes,” Steve says.

“Sure,” Coulson replies.  “Just, do you have any form of ID for him?  Nick’s pretty sure it’s James Barnes from the description, but, like I said, he’s not talking to us.”

“Yeah, um…”  If James is that far gone, who knows if he has his phone or his wallet.  Steve wonders if James’s entry at the top of his list of contacts will count.

Fury sets his phone down on the table and quickly wakes the laptop on the podium in the corner.  He holds up one finger as he taps a few keys.  “Copy of his VA ID card is on the printer now.”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says.  He mouths thank you to Fury.

“And you’re a family member?”  Coulson presses.  “I’m sorry, I have to ask.  Just for everybody’s safety.”

They’re close to two decades into the 21st century.  Steve shouldn’t be embarrassed to call their relationship what it is.  But even then, finding the right word is difficult.  He’s thought about it before, how challenging it is to sum up what James is to him, and he still hasn’t come to a good conclusion.  There’s no time to think now, though, so he says the simplest thing.  “He’s my partner.”  Then he adds, “I’m his emergency contact,” so there’s no space for argument.

Steve sees Fury pulling up James’s patient profile on the screen, too, the one that shows his relatives.  Steve tops the list, even though nothing binds them together but emotion.  One of the cases where water collects enough sediment and dissolved minerals to be thicker than blood.

“On the printer too.”  Fury points to the screen.  Steve nods.

“Good deal,” Coulson says.  “See you soon.”

“Ok.  Yes.  Thank you.”  Steve’s already halfway to the door before Fury returns to the table to end the call.  He can hear Coulson murmuring through the static as he fumbles with his own phone.  Steve’s coming, ok, Jimmy?  Steve Rogers.  It’s the wrong nickname.  But the right sentiment.

“Take the rest of the day,” Fury says, keeping pace as Steve jogs down the corridor to grab the documents from the office hub.  “I’ll clear your schedule.”

“Thank you.”  Steve realizes he’s not breathing, and sucks in a quick lungful.  “I’m sorry about this.”  The words tumble out, his body desperate to shed some of the stress so he can deal with the more pressing issues at hand.  “I probably could’ve prevented it.”

“Nobody sees emergencies coming.”  Fury claps him on the shoulder and holds the side door open for Steve.  “And this is well within the definition of what your sick time will cover.”

Steve’s timecard is the last thing on his mind.  “Thanks,” he says again.

“Hey.”  Fury gives him a meaningful look with his real eye while the glass one seems to stare through Steve.  “Call me if you’re gonna be out tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees as he walks backward toward his car.  “I will.”

Fury nods and gives him a smile.

***

The lights of the police cars are visible halfway down the block, but at least there aren’t any sirens to add to what has to already be an overwhelming amount of sensory input.  Steve pulls up to the curb and jumps out, papers shaking in his hands.

James is on his knees with his head resting on the bench at the bus stop.  His hand is fisted in his hair, and what’s visible of his face is ghostly pale.

“Are you Steve?”  An officer rushes up to meet him, interrupting his beeline.

“Yeah.”  Steve pushes the documents at him, trying to swallow his guilt and borderline panic and drudge up a calm frame of mind.

“Phil Coulson,” the officer says.  “We spoke on the phone.”

“Yeah.”  Steve can’t concentrate on him, though.  James makes an uncomfortable sound, and Steve’s stomach twists in response.  He notices the ambulance parked behind the cop cars, EMTs standing nearby.  “I think if I can just get him home…”  Plans are good, for everyone involved.  “He has a TBI.  Post-traumatic stress, a seizure disorder,” Steve explains.  “I’m pretty sure he forgot his meds this morning.”

It’s not James’s fault that he forgot.  It’s Steve’s fault. 

James groans again and mumbles something.  He blinks hard, but doesn’t look up from the bench’s chipped paint.

“Sure, we’ll stand by,” Coulson says.

Steve runs the last few steps to James’s side, but slows as he lowers himself into a squat.  “Hey, Buck.  Hey.  It’s me, ok?  It’s Steve.”

“Hm.”  James moves his jaw around, but no other sounds come out.

“Can you look at me?”  Steve hovers his hand over James’s arm.  He wants to jump straight to hugging him, but it’s better to go slow.  “I’m gonna touch your shoulder, just letting you know I’m here.”

James is too far gone to process the warning, and he lashes out as soon as Steve’s palm makes contact with his sleeve.  He catches a snag in his hair, and Steve can see strands of it clinging in the webbing between his fingers.  There’s no power behind the blow.  It glances off Steve’s chest, and he uses the opportunity to sandwich James’s hand between his own.

Coulson moves in Steve’s peripheral vision.  “We’re good.  It’s ok,” he tells the officer.  Then he gently squeezes James’s hand.  “You’re home.  Let’s bring you back, ok?”

James blinks again.  He turns his head a fraction of an inch so he can squint sideways at Steve.  There’s a second of recognition, then glassy dizziness again.  He swallows.  “I…  I don’t…” he mumbles.

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’re in DC.  It’s 2018.  It’s getting cold out.”  Steve thinks frantically of other sensory absolutes to point out, ones that won’t be further triggering.

“What’re you…?”  James shakes his head.  It starts slow, then the movement becomes a tremor, shaking his cheeks and his lips.  “You gotta…stop the fucking car…you’re gonna…hit another one…”  His voice dies with a wet sound.

“Ok, ok, Buck?  Look at me.”  But it’s no use.  He’s either going to throw up or start seizing.  James lunges away from the bench, but Steve still has his hand, and he snaps back like a stretched rubber band.  He face-plants into Steve’s chest just as he starts to gag.

Steve couldn’t care less about the mess or the dull ache from the impact of James’s forehead against his sternum.  All that matters is the twitch of tension in James’s hand as his fingers slowly interlace with Steve’s.

“Alright.  There you go.  It’s ok,” Steve murmurs.  He rubs James’s back until he’s done coughing.  “You’re safe.  I got you.”

James leans into him, pressing his face and the front of his neck and his shoulders against Steve’s body.  Steve returns the embrace, dipping his head till his nose brushes James’s back.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but eventually adrenaline wears off, and Steve’s knees ache from being jammed against the cold pavement.  He strokes James’s hair and whispers, “How about we go home?”

James takes a breath.  He’s not up to talking.  Steve still gets the meaning.  He’s heavy and limp like an overcooked noodle, but at least now he’s pliant.

“Ok.  Good.”  Steve plants his feet and slowly straightens his legs, heaving James up with him.  Coulson appears at his elbow, ready to help, but Steve warns him off.  “Don’t.  I got him.”  He pulls James’s arm over his shoulders.  “Sorry.  He just—”

“Isn’t good with strangers,” the officer finishes.  “I get it.”  He looks down at the splatter of sick on Steve’s jeans.  “You need medical, or anything?”

“No, it’s ok, really.”  Steve struggles to free his keys from his pocket.  “But can you help me unlock the car?”

Coulson holds the passenger side open while Steve settles James in the seat.  “Thank you,” he sighs.  “I’m really sorry about all this.”  Steve gently shuts the door and rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand.  “We’ve usually got things better under control.”

“Hey, no worries.  Everybody’s safe, and that’s what really matters.”  The officer gives Steve the keys back, then raises his hand in farewell and heads for his cruiser.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.  “I guess so.”

***

He drives below the speed limit, then shuffles James across the parking lot and into the apartment.  The coffee and pills from this morning are still on the table beside the couch, but they don’t get that far before James is done with being vertical.

“Whoa.  Ok.”  Steve catches him around the waist before he hits the floor and slowly lowers him the rest of the way.  James gets a fistful of Steve’s collar, yanking his neckline down a few inches and begging Steve to hold him with everything but actual words.

Steve whispers to him and rubs his shoulders and matches his breathing to James’s, imagining the puffs of warmth on his chest feeding him with a little strength that he can foster and pass back to James on the next exhale.

It works for a while, but James starts to shake again.  He makes a humming noise, and Steve feels dampness on his shirt.  At first he thinks James is sick again, but when he pulls his head back to look down, he realizes James is crying.

Tears aren’t bad.  Steve tells that to his clients all the time.  Sometimes they’re necessary.  Emotional purging works very much in the same way as its physical counterpart: sometimes things just need to come up.

“It’s ok,” Steve soothes.  “It’s ok.  You’re ok.”

James pauses sniveling to listen to Steve’s voice, but then he sobs again, air gusting from his lips and making the wetness cold against Steve’s skin.  The vomit on his leg is cold too.  But the tears that run from the corners of his own eyes are hot.  He’d hug James all day and into the night, but he also can’t take this anymore.  The physical weight of him is too much on top of the weight of the responsibility Steve feels for him.

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”  Steve manhandles James into the bedroom as gently as he can, then unlaces his shoes and tucks him in.  He catches a teardrop with his thumb and kisses James’s stubbly cheek, promising he’ll only be gone a minute.

It takes him longer, though.  Steve stops in the hallway and fights to keep his face from crumpling.  One deviation from routine, one skipped dose, and this is already where they’re at.

It might just be a bad day.  James had had a rough night.  Maybe if he’d slept, he’d be fine.  Or if it was warmer outside.  If Steve had just stayed and watched him swallow his pills, this wouldn’t have happened.

Or maybe if Steve wasn’t always coming up behind him, he’d pick up some more self-sufficiency.  No matter how he slices it, it’s his fault.  The pressure of tears yet unshed makes Steve’s head ache, but he’ll take the pain if it saves him from falling apart.

He strips out of his jeans in the guest bathroom and leaves them in the tub, then pads down the hall in his underwear.  He grabs James’s meds and fills a glass with water.  He digs crackers out of the cupboard, then looks over the spread.  Steve’s about to take it all back to the bedroom when he changes his mind and opens the drawer of pill bottles.

The benzos don’t do much for James’s sleep patterns, so he doesn’t take them.  Occasional insomnia is a joke of a diagnosis anyway; the sleeplessness is hardly a problem compared to the nightmares that cause it.  

He doesn’t like pills that make a fuzz his head, he’d told Steve.  But James is already in a fuzz.  What he needs now is rest.  Steve does too, and he knows he won’t get any if he spends the next couple hours with his heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces as he listens to James cry.  

There are already four medications in the paper cup, a motley collection of capsules and tablets.  Steve can add one more.  James probably won’t even notice.

***

“Here, let’s take your meds,” Steve says, helping him sit up.  It’s not a lie.  They’re all James’s meds.

James complies without question, even shoving against the mattress with his shaking arm so Steve doesn’t have to do all the work.  He knocks back the pills and swallows a few times, squinting as if it hurts.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve whispers.

James slumps back toward the pillow, reaching for Steve’s hand.  “Steve,” he whispers, drawing out the name until it’s just a breath.

“Yeah.  I’m here.”  Steve forces a smile.  He perches on the edge of the mattress and watches James’s eyes drift shut.

Once he’s breathing evenly, Steve changes clothes and retreats to the kitchen.  He downs a dose of ibuprofen and shovels cold leftovers into his mouth until his throat’s too tight to swallow.  He drops his fork and folds his arms on the table.  He pushes his chair out, then buries his face in his sleeves, wondering if he’s any more put-together than James was when he was breaking down at the bus stop.  Tears aren’t bad, Steve thinks to himself.  He repeats it over a few times, just to be sure he doesn’t forget.

It’s a miracle that logic kicks back in once the weeping tapers off.  Or maybe it’s just his protective instinct playing up again.  Steve peeks in on James, and once he’s sure he’s alright for the time being, he starts a load of wash and does the dishes.

He wanted a few hours of quiet, needed it, in fact, but now it’s too quiet.  Steve opens his laptop and fires up Pandora, but after five minutes he’s out of skips. and still restless.  He calls Sam and puts him on speaker.

“Hey,” Sam greets him.  “I heard what happened.  How’s he doing?”

“He’s ok,” Steve says.  “He just dissociated.  Panicked.  Got sick.”  The need to act, to keep cleaning up, gnaws at him.  He opens a new browser and clicks through the process to order James a medic alert necklace.  “He’s asleep now.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam says.  “I mean, that he’s getting through it.  And no seizure this time.”

“Yeah, no seizure.”  Steve stares at the computer screen, wondering how on earth this is going to help.  He’s treating James like a stray dog he’s deciding to keep for his own.  Or throwing him back to the Army, with his name on a tag around his neck.  Just with Steve’s phone number instead of a serial.

“But…it’s all my fault, Sam,” Steve whispers.  Not just today.  Everything.  James had joined the Army for Steve.  To support him.  Then, after they’d fought about it, to get away from him.  

And now Steve’s doing the same thing.  Escaping. Slipping drugs to his medically fragile significant other when he needs a break to cry.  At least James had only risked his own life when he’d signed on.  It was gallant.  Steve feels disgusting by comparison.

“Steve.  Hey.  I’m not your kind of therapist, but I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.”  Sam pauses.  “Mistaken beliefs?  Is that what they’re called?  You know I don’t always pay attention in seminars.”

Steve chuckles.  “That’s right, actually.  You’d probably make a better counselor than I would right now.”

“I’ll drop off my resumé,” Sam laughs.  “But I’m serious.  We spend so much time on our patients, our clients.  It’s hard when it’s a loved one.  And it makes it even harder when you realize your limits.”

“I just ordered him a dog tag,” Steve blurts out.  It’s suddenly hilarious instead of sad, and it makes him question his sanity a little.

“That’s a good thing.  What does it say?  ‘If lost, return to Steve Rogers’?”

“Just about.”  Steve sighs and wipes his eyes.  “I just…  I really love him, Sam.  I don’t want to hurt him.  I don’t want him to hurt.  At all.  Ever.”

“You’re doing good,” Sam says firmly.  “Not everything turns out perfect, but overall, you’re doing good.”

“Hm.”  Steve’s still not entirely convinced, but Sam’s words are reassuring.

“Do you want to order a pizza?”

“What?”  Steve wonders if he heard right.

“Since I’m applying for everybody’s job, I thought I’d add pizza delivery boy to the list.  And I didn’t want to straight-up ask if you wanted company.  Since I’m not that kind of therapist.”  Steve can practically see his friend’s grin.

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “I could use some pizza.  And company.  We could use company.”

“Alright.  See you in 20?”

“Sure.”  Steve closes his laptop.  “Sounds good.”

#mcu #marvel #captain america #steve rogers #bucky barnes #trans steve #amputee bucky #veteran bucky #stucky #fanfic #fanfiction #ptsd #panic attacks #hurt/comfort #sickfic #angst #emeto #emetophilia #whoa bessie #au #alternate universe

[jiilys]

with you, i aim to please

APRIL JILY CHALLENGE: @jiilys vs @petalstofish

‘we have rival camp cabins and my cabin is totally gonna kick your cabin’s ass in the talent show’

(thanks to @bantasticbeasts and @alrightpotter who suffered with me. love the #crew) 

Sirius rapped loudly on the window and then without waiting for an answer, barged into the cabin and hit Annabel Stevens in the back with the door.

“James yo- oh shit, sorry- you’re never going to fucking believe this. Evans is here.”

James, sitting on the floor and surrounded by children, said “Piss off,” then realized where he was and added, “…is not something we should be saying at camp.” He turned back to Sirius, “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Just saw her in the girls loos and she gave me the finger.”

“Why were you in the girl’s loos?” asked a child whose name James had forgotten.

“Cleaning.” both James and Sirius said at once. “She gave you the finger?” James questioned, grinning.

“And told me I was a sack of toenails.” Sirius rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a cigarette. “It’s absolutely her.”

“You can’t smoke in here.” Annabel Stevens told him, indignantly. Sirius stuck his hand out the still open door.

Tommy Elliot, high off hearing so many swear words in succession, piped up and asked, “Whose Evans?”

“Evans! Fancy seeing you here!” James exclaimed, trying to look like he hadn’t asked thirteen people where she was.

Lily, standing in a field with gumboots on trying to show eight uninterested children what a dragonfly was, thought about throwing herself into the lake. “Well if it isn’t Satan’s moldy bread bin.” She said, and James smirked.

“Charming. Gang, meet Evans. Evans, meet my kids.”

“My condolences on your counselor.” Lily offered before turning to Sirius. “Black. Where are your kids.”

“Bathroom.”

“All eight of them?” Lily asked.

“They drink a lot of water.”

James, feeling like the interaction had veered away from him somewhat, said “me and Lily went to camp together when we were your guy’s age. We knew each other quite well.”

“Were you boyfriend and girlfriend?” Adelaide Kipling demanded immediately.  

“No, fortunately I have taste.” Lily responded.

“Not in clothes. Your shirt looks like it was pulled out of my dad’s wastepaper bin.” James said.

Lily folded her arms. “Your dad’s obviously misusing his wastepaper bin seeing as this shirt is made of fabric and not paper.”

“Don’t lecture me about recycling.”

“Somebody’s got to. The Planet is dying.”

“Your chat just keeps getting better and better Evans.”

“Rather like your chances of being strangled by a disappointed sexual partner.”

“I hate you.” James said, conversationally. “Also, your kid is about to fall in the lake.”

“What?” Lily protested, and turned just in time to see Jonathan Sykes hit the water.

“I can’t believe you’re the adult here.” Oliver Callaghan stated, rather cuttingly, and James threw a marshmallow at him.  

The story of what happened sounded very traumatic in James’ head, but as he repeated it to eight eleven year olds around a campfire, it seemed dramatically less so.

“That’s stupid.” Elisa Mortman said, flatly. Several people nodded. James was appalled.

“I think you’re missing the point” he said, “I didn’t win because of her. I was robbed.” They were all staring at him. The second-hand embarrassment was almost palpable.

“Remembering the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me-“

“Oh my god-“

“-doesn’t make me petty, it makes me wise.”

Lily sat forward in disbelief. “If the worst thing anyone’s ever done to you is pull the fire alarm while you were weirdly shuffling around on stage-“

“I was dancing” James objected.  

“You were dying.” Lily corrected, leaning back and eating a spoonful of cornflakes. “you clearly got up there and had nothing planned.” This was true, but enough years had gone by that James could pretend otherwise.

“This year I’m going to be standing by the fire alarm, making sure you don’t sabotage another child’s performance.”

“You know there’s more than one fire alarm, right?” Lily swallowed more cornflakes.

“Of course I did.” James lied, “Sirius and Remus are going to monitor the other ones.”

“What about me?” asked Peter through a mouthful of toast.

“You can’t monitor the fire alarm Pete. Someone has to watch the kids.”

Lily smirked. “Look at you, thinking of the children.”

“I’m always thinking of the children Evans.”

“Oh yeah?” Lily pointed at a kid two seats away from them, “What’s his name?”

“Steven.” James bluffed.

“Wrong.” Lily said, “it’s David.”

The child- who was called neither- got up to get more toast. Remus thumped down his coffee and said, “His name is Aaron.” It was not.

“I could push you down here.” James said casually, as both he and Lily stood at the top of the mudslide. Behind them, Oliver Callaghan was whining about how people kept cutting in line while Amad Presh put on his goggles. Their camp groups got on unfortunately well, and James believed his lot were doing it to spite him. Lily thought the same.

“Touch me and you lose a hand.” Lily threatened.

“I could still push you with only one hand.” James said, and to demonstrate, did so.

“I bet you were the kind of douchebag in high school who made people take off their shoes before they got your car.” Lily accused, standing behind James in the dinner line.

“Actually, that was me.” Sirius cut in, leaning over Lily’s shoulder. She flicked him on the nose and returned to James, who had started speaking.

“I bet you were the kind of girl who didn’t share her fries at McDonalds because you were that cheap.”

Lily, offended, said “That was way meaner than what I said.”

James shrugged. “I stand by it.”

“Git.”

Lily hid his gumboots. He put ants in her water bottle. She got her kids to soak his clothes in mud. He roped his into filling her sleeping bag with sand. He was washing off the dick she’d drawn on his face when she comes up behind him in the bathroom.

“Shame. I think it makes you look better.”

“How so?” James watched her in the mirror.

“Well anything’s an improvement on your current look, really.”

Sirius keeps telling everyone they’re in love. It’s very annoying.

“You’re destined to be together.” He said, watching James supervise archery, or rather, watching James watch his kids try to figure out a bow and arrow. “it’s fate.”

“It’s bloody not. She puts tomato sauce on lasagna and also ruined my life when I was eleven.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Your life was already ruined when you were eleven. You used to wear a matching sweater and beanie to school.”

“Shut up. That was a look.”

“Only if ‘look’ is now defined as ‘travesty’”

Remus invited her to their nightly poker games because he’s a traitor. James suggested switching location without telling her, but Remus has a private cabin because he sleepwalks so that’s the only place to go if they want to speak any louder than a whisper. James instead resolved not share any of his secret beer, but accidentally opened her one while they were arguing about who had the better childhood pet.

(She had a cat, he had a dog, Sirius claimed to have a horse but was then exposed to have a lizard, Remus spent the entire argument laughing at the fake horse name Sirius had chosen which was ‘Prancer’ and Peter had an ant farm, though nobody asked him.)

Lily was terrible at poker, and James had a habit of cheating, so both stopped playing around twelve to have conversation about beer labels, and then about condensation on beer bottles, and then they were googling why condensation didn’t affect beer labels, and Sirius had lost £30 to Remus, and Peter had finished all the crisps, and Lily was wrestling James’ phone away because he’d spelt ‘condensation’ wrong.

The most annoying bit was, he’d started to like her against his will.

“You did this. I know it was you.” James said, sulky, lying on a stretcher in the med bay.

“Oh, I got a bee to sting you now did I?” Lily laughed, sitting on the edge of his bed and eating rice crackers. He couldn’t remember the reason she came in, only that it had now been an hour, and they’d spent twenty minutes at least arguing about who made the better cheese sandwich.

“You trained it. You don’t even go to uni at all, do you? Why would anyone want a bloody art history degree. No-“ James sat up, getting into it, “You’re a bee trainer. You set that bee on me and now you’re sitting here laughing.”

“Doesn’t sound very profitable. Bee training.” Lily said, smiling.

James grinned. “It’s a growth industry.”

Once, at one of the nightly poker games, Lily mentions she missed gummy bears. James, inexplicably, ordered some, then snuck them into her cabin while she was white water rafting. He didn’t want to think about it that much.

She confronted him at breakfast. “Did you order these for me?” she asked, holding them up. Her shirt was slipping off her shoulder slightly, and James swallowed.

“God no, I don’t even like you.” He lied. She grinned and hit him with the bag.

“Why would you want an art history degree?” he asked, standing on her cabin porch. He had accidentally walked her back after dinner. He wants the record to reflect that he did not mean to.

“Because everything else is shit.”

“You’re shit.” He said, a reflex.

“Tell me Potter,” she crossed her arms over her chest, “Is it hard having the IQ of a squashed grapefruit?” He laughed.

“We have to win this talent show. It’s a matter of pride.” James said to his cabin at large.

A sleepy eleven-year-old muttered, “It’s one in the morning.” James rolled over and turned the lights on.

“Tell you what Jason that doesn’t sound like dedica-“ he started, but was then hit in the face by several pillows and stuffed snake.

“Your friendship bracelet looks like shit.” James commented to Lily across the table.

Lily, running on two hours of sleep because Stephani Harris got a vomiting bug, hissed, “My friendship bracelet is going to murder your friendship bracelet and bury it in a shallow grave.”

“Christ” James said, alarmed.

Upon hearing that she was in the med bay after a nature walk, he laughed for a solid minute before abandoning his game of Go Fish to go take the piss out of her himself.

James walked in imagining a rope burn, a scrape, a bee sting, and instead sees blood on the floor, over the stretcher, on her hands. His stomach plummeted so quickly he physically jolted, staring, his head a horrible riot.

“I fell into a rock pool.” She explained, and he could see a huge cut on her forehead, the skin peeling away on her leg, a bruise pouring over her left arm. He felt sick. “Also, a crab bit me.” She added.

He didn’t say anything, just looking at the blood and bandages and the line of freckles along her collarbone. “Your leg is going to scar.” He croaked. This is an understatement. It looked like half her skin had been ripped off.

“Yeah, I know,” she looked down, “the crab really did a number on me.” He half laughed, and she grinned at him, all teeth, that way girls did when they really meant it.

“Why an art history degree though, for real.” James asked, sitting on a large boulder. They’d ditched poker night once Sirius started using Pringles as betting chips. As Lily had explained, they were terrible players, but they still had standards.

“What’s with you and your fascination with my art history degree?” She answered, leaning on her elbows.

“I dunno’ it just…” he doesn’t know how to explain it. “When we were eleven you wanted to be a journalist.” He said, and smiled at the memory. Her, hair frizzy in the heat, standing with her hands on her hips and calling him a shitbitch for flushing all her hair ties down the toilet, saying one day she would expose him in print.  

“You wanted to be a soccer player” she said into the quiet, and he let himself look at her, stretched across the grass like a dead body. Her shirt had ridden up and in the moonlight, he could see a slice of hipbone, the edge of a jawline, her hair pouring over her shoulders like spilt water.

I want, he thought, ridiculously, like he was four years old, I want.

They were supervising their kids at the lake, which basically entailed being able to identify screams of fun from screams of drowning, and James was looking for his sunglasses when Lily threw the sunscreen at his back. “That’s going to bruise.” He complained.

“Jesus weeps.” She deadpanned, and damn her, she was wearing his fucking sunglasses. “Black,” Lily turned to Sirius, who was lying on a towel with a hat over his face, “Where are your kids?”

“Went home.” He said.

“Camp doesn’t end for another month.”

“They all got sick.” Sirius said, in a tone that indicated they had not.

“Yeah, of having you as a counsellor.” Remus cut in, and Lily laughed. Sirius gave them both the finger without taking the hat off his face.

They were playing poker again in Remus’ cabin, drinking and swearing and watching Peter bluff terribly, when it started pissing down with rain. “You can’t go out in that.” Remus said simply, and threw about eight blankets at them, all of which Sirius promptly stole.

James woke up with a start to the lightning, the window alight, and realized Lily’s hand was on his collarbone. Her fingers were stretched over his throat, face impossibly close, and he could see every freckle on her nose. The still-healing cut on her forehead. Each of her eyelashes.

He couldn’t breathe for a minute. He wanted, in this order, to wake her up, kiss her, bet her ten dollars that he could beat her in a running race and then kiss her again.

“You know I’m still wondering when the talent show is.” James wondered aloud to the not-listening Remus while standing in the lunch line.

“Oh, they don’t do that anymore.” Some kid said in front of him. James blanched.

“What?”

“Yeah, some girl pulled the fire alarm during some guy’s performance and it cost the camp a fortune to get the firetrucks out here so they stopped it. Also, the prizes sucked.”

James couldn’t believe it. As in he literally didn’t believe it. “Who are you?” he accused.

The kid turned to him. “I’m in Sirius’ cabin. We’ve meet about thirty times. You called me Steven at breakfast once.”

James burst open the door of the boiler room, saw Lily standing alone by the clothes line, and stormed over, shouting “They don’t even do the talent show anymore!”

“Oh.” Is all she said, like this wasn’t important, and continued to hang her shorts.

“What do you mean ‘oh’. This is huge news.”

Lily gave him a look. “Tell me you didn’t come all the way out here to tell me that.”

James, who had done exactly that, said “No,” and then: “You don’t care about this.”

“Correct.”

James stared at her, now pegging down a t-shirt, and said “I have no earthly idea why I like you so much” before he could think about it. She froze. He remembered, too late, that when he said things aloud other people could hear him.

“Come again?” she choked, still not looking at him.

“I said I hate you.” James amended, desperately. He wanted to be eaten by a black hole or maybe a rabid dog.

“No, you didn’t,” she said, looking at him now, “You said you liked me.”

“What? No I didn’t. Why would I say a stupid thing like that?” James babbled, flushing.

She was walking towards him, all slowly, and he couldn’t feel his hands, “I’m not sure.” She said, “Maybe because you do.”

“I don’t like you.” He reinforced, a lie so unbeliebably false even a rabid dog wouldn’t have believed it.   

“Really?” she stopped walking, “because I like you madly.”

His heart jumped so hard in his chest that he was sure he’d broken a rib. “Ah.” He said.

“Yeah.” She responded. He could not stop looking at her. Thank God you are you and not somebody else he thought, and then said:

“Bit of a shame I don’t like you then.”

“Ugh” She dropped her head, laughing, “You’re such a fucking asswipe-” and then she was kissing him, and it could not have mattered less that he never got to beat her in the fucking talent show. How ridiculous it seemed, really, to think anything was ever important than this.  

#THIS IS LONG AND IT IS LATE AND I HAVE SCHOOL TOMORROW AND IT IS LITERALLY AN HOUR BEFORE THE DEADLINE I WANT TO FUCKING DIE #jilychallenge #jily #james potter #lily evans #carolineswritingtag #brotp: the lot #cant be bothered tagging them all but theyre all in here #THE VIBE OF THIS IS WERID BUT I DONT CARE IM SO FUCKING TIRED WHY CAN I NOT MANAGE ANYTHING I HAVE TO GET UP AT SIX TOMORROW IM

[hamilficsfordays]

New Beginning—Chapter Eight: Tragedy-Prone

Disclaimer: I don’t actually speak spanish so I apologize if any translations are incorrect

Also posted on Ao3

Summary:  Autumn in New York has arrived and school has started for everyone including Alexa. Unfortunately, that’s not the only thing that has started.

Rating: M for language (in English and Spanish), teen binge drinking, mentions of rape

Words: 7828 (rip me)

Askbox / Masterlist / Chapter Seven / Chapter Nine

Tags:

@promisesandmore @justanotherfanficreader and @huffleheyguys who asked me to tag them in literally any writing.

September in New York meant the start of school. The slight excitement Alexa had was shadowed by the overwhelming fear of seeing the boys who violated her that night again. Still, she pushed on.

“There’s no shame in being homeschooled until we can transfer you to Brearley next semester.” Lin offered that morning while en route to the school.

“I’m not going to rot in that apartment for the next four months, Lin. I need to do this.”

She had on a plaid green skirt, a white polo, black stockings, and a long sleeve green cardigan. This was within the required uniform standards Alexa carefully adjusted the sleeves of her cardigan to make sure they were covering the bandages on her arms while staring up at Lin from the chair on the subway. The train was packed, full of others headed to work or school that morning.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, glancing down at her, attempting to read her face. She rolled her eyes, a light smile.

“Remember what Dr. Montgomery said?” she reminded him of the doctor’s appointment they’d been to the day before.

“As long as you take your meds as needed, you’ll be fine.” he repeated.

Alexa carefully pulled a full pill bottle of Zoloft out of her messenger bag, She took one pill and washed it down with a sip of water from a plastic bottle that she’d been holding on to. “I took my meds today, okay? So stop panicking. You’re more worried than I am.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Would you like one?” she offered, smirking.

“Very funny.” he glanced out the train window in search of a number as the train slowed to a halt.

“This is our stop.”

-

They arrived at the school shortly after.

“Okay, I gave you a free ‘worried parent’ pass to travel with me to school this morning. Your pass has now expired.” She gave him a light pat on his arm. “You no longer have permission to escort me to school.”

“Do I have a hug pass?”

“Those can only be redeemed at home or not ten feet from my school.”

Lin hugs her anyway, kissing the top of her head.

“Why do I make rules if you’re just going to break them?” she demanded, feeling him laugh against her.

The laughing stopped however as he saw Eric approach the school after exiting his town car. There was a smaller more sheepish boy by his side, looking slightly on edge, though Eric being beside him seemed to ease his tension slightly.

Alexa caught a glimpse of what had made Lin so serious, feeling a wave of fear wash over her as he looked their way.

He approached them then, the smaller boy beside him.

“You really shouldn’t be over here,” Lin started, stepping in front of his daughter. “It’s dangerous. I wouldn’t want something to happen to you.”

“Lin,” she stepped in between them, facing her father. “You can’t threaten someone my age. No matter how much they genuinely deserve it.”

“Ease off, George Lopez,” Eric started. “I’m here to apologize.”

They both stared straight at him, taken aback by his words. Frustrated, he glared at the younger boy beside him who nudged him forward, urging him to continue.

“Sorry for…” he sighed, glancing in another direction. “Hurting you a month ago. I was a jerk and you didn’t deserve it.”

“Hurting me?” she shot back. “That’s the best you can do?”

Alexa glanced at the boy beside him, who seemed to be curiously fixated on Lin.

“Is that your conscious?” she asked, directing to the younger boy. “He’s not large enough for you to compensate.”

Eric was enraged then, stepping close to her and leaning in.

“Don’t talk about my little brother, okay? I apologized, so get off my back.”

“Did you apologize? Is that what they call an apology where you’re from?”

“Oh my god, you’re Lin-Manuel Miranda!” Grabbing everyone’s attention beside Eric was the smaller boy, pushing past the two teens to stand directly in front of the older man.

“I listen to In the Heights like, religiously. I mean I did, before Hamilton came out. Now I listen to that religiously. I’m Daxton,” he took Lin’s hand, shaking it furiously. It’s an honor to meet you!”

“Th-thank you?” Lin politely smiled back.

“What the fuck is In The Heights?” Alexa demanded, receiving a confused look from both Lin and Daxton.

“Only his first musical and winner of Tony award for best musical of 2008! I was friends with this boy at my old school who was like—well he was Spanish—and we would always spend weekends at his place where he would try to rap all of Usnavi’s lines. It was amazing. You’re amazing.”

“You have another musical?” she asked, prompting another confused look from Lin.

Alexa glanced at Daxton, at Eric, and then back to Daxton.

“Oh my god.” she finally said. “Your brother came out and you gained a conscious.”

“Shut up.” Eric shot back.

“Eric and I have been trying to get tickets for Hamilton since it started at the Public. Right Eric?” he nudged his older brother eagerly.

“Dax really likes the show—” he tried.

“Me?! You sing Yorktown in the shower like every night!”

“Oh my god.” Alexa stifled her laughter, Lin doing the same.

He kissed the top of Alexa’s head again. “Have a good day.”

“You’re gonna have to be more genuine if you want to see that show, Eric.” Daxton folded his arms, glaring knowingly at his brother.

“Okay well… We should go.” Eric lead his brother away, glaring at Alexa who only smirked back.

This would serve as the highlight of her morning, a morning otherwise full of being called a slut or being told that she deserved it while walking in the hallways.

“Hey, how much for a lap dance?” Across the hallway from her locker, someone tossed a wad of dollar bills at her to a chorus of laughter.

And to think Lin and V are paying $47,000 a year so that I can get treated like this she thought, closing her locker and kicking the wad aside as she headed to her first class.

The class was small, quiet when she walked in. She recognized no faces, a relieving fact.

It was AP US History, a class she was destined to fly through—at least partially.

“Sorry, I’m late!” A small, blonde, white woman who could’ve easily passed for a student rushed in, papers in one hand and coffee in the other. “Mama needed a little pick me up before class started.” She shook her paper coffee cup.

There were a few chuckles, though most of the students didn’t find it amusing.

“Okay well, welcome to AP US History. I’m Dr. Rhodes, but you can call me Annie, and this year we’ll be learning how our country came to be. Included in that learning will be a single chapter on Civil Rights that’s only short because this book was written by a bunch of white people.” she laughed, prompting no reaction from her students but a small smile from Alexa, the only non-white person in the room.

“Let’s start with attendance.” she pulled out a single paper from the stack in her hand, listing off each name one by one until she got to Alexa.

“Alexa Jordan?” she asked. Alexa raised her hand.

“The same Alexa Jordan who’s the daughter of that handsome gentleman who wrote Hamilton?”

“Uh… Yeah?” she laughed, feeling the other students’ eyes on her. “I guess?”

“You know I was a TA when I was getting my masters at Yale… They’ve got a lot of love for Hamilton over there. Several of his original documents stored away. I think you and your mancandy father would have a lot of interest in that.”

There was an awkward silence.

“In fact, let’s all go! Road trip!”

More silence.

“No? No Hamilton fans here? You guys are missing out. That show is AMAZING—”

“Okay, can we actually talk about something important?” A girl in the back interrupted.

“Well excuse me,” Dr. Rhodes glanced at the attendance list again to find the girl’s name. “Hazel! I hate to admit it but you’re right. Let’s get started with the rape, pillage, and murder of hundreds of thousands of Native Americans when the white man first arrived here by ship.”

At the end of APUSH, she headed to her locker only discover an array of papers taped to the front.

“Oh great, another smear campaign.” She thought, starting to tear them off. A quick glance at one, however, changed her perspective.

Sign up for the Drama Club! This year, with special permission We’ll be producing a production of Hamilton: An American Musical by Lin-Manuel Miranda

She glanced at each of the posters, all of them identical. A safe way to pander she figured. With no friends and virtually no one to talk to, she essentially had nothing to lose. She’d made a mental note to head to the school theatre at the end of the day.

She caught a glimpse of Eric headed down the hallway toward her that made her shiver involuntarily. He made a passing comment at another girl that Alexa couldn’t hear. Her retaliation, however, was loud and clear.

“¡No me jodas, Westly!” she shouted, loud enough for everyone in the hallway to hear. “At least I don’t have to drug people to get them to have sex with me. ¡Chinga tu madre!”

“Like anyone would ever want to sleep with you. Don’t you have houses to clean?” he shot back, rolling his eyes. He didn’t stop to converse but continued walking down the hall. “That’s right pinche puta, keep walking!”

When he approached Alexa, she froze. Though she had stood up to him that morning, the harsh fear that came up whenever he approached didn’t seem to go away. Without Lin, she was alone.

The last time she was alone with him, it didn’t end well.

“Oh hey, looks who’s all alone with no daddy to defend them.”

He grabbed her arm forcefully, holding tight despite her attempts to pull away.

He leaned in close, paralyzing her with fear.

“Can I get you anything?” he whispered, recalling what he had said to her that night. “A drink? Maybe something a little more exciting?”

His grip on her arm tightened. She was struggling to manage a response as she continued to attempt to free herself.

“What do you feel like swallowing?” he recited.

There was a sudden jolt as the other girl shoved Eric away from her.

“You wanna fight someone?” she shoved him toward the lockers. He was clearly intimidated though he tried to hide it. Despite him being a few inches taller, the girl overpowered him in overall strength.

“Fight me, bitch!” she continued. “My father is a professional wrestler! I dare you to come at me. ¡Besa mi culo, puto!”

She had him wedged between herself and the lockers. Seeing him clearly shaken up was enough to get Alexa to take a sigh of relief. She moved away from the scene until her back hit the lockers on the other side of the hallway. When there was nowhere else to go, she slid down to the floor, watching the scene unfold.

“Whatever,” he tried to brush it off. “I don’t need to fight you. It would be a waste of my time.” he managed to fight his way out of the small space and fast-walk down the hallway.

“This isn’t over, Pendejo!”

She barely noticed the girl offering to help her up as she sat on the ground, processing what had just happened.

“Cabron,” the girl remarked, watching Eric walk off as she offered Alexa a hand. She took it, slowly pulling herself up.

The girl was Latina (unlike every other student besides Lex it seemed), unmistakably tall and rather muscular, but ever confident with herself.

“Thank you,” she finally said, brushing her skirt off. “He’s um… he’s kind of intimidating.”

“Ay, no, You wouldn’t say that if you saw the way he cried like un bebé when he was being pulled away in a cop car from that party last month.” she chuckled.

Alexa’s eyes lit up at the thought. “Wait, you were there?”

“No, but it was on New York One the next morning.” she chuckled at the memory. “Lo que es un bastardo.”

The shorter teen almost felt kind of stupid for being so afraid of him. The other girl picked up on that.

“Amiga, I’m sure he really fucked you up. He’s a pendejo and you’re allowed to handle that however you do. Just don’t let him steal your light. He doesn’t fucking deserve it.”

A small smile formed on Alexa’s face. “That was really profound.”

She shrugged. “Si, I know, I’m like a fucking latina Shakespeare.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

Lex suddenly realized she may have been coming on too strong and felt the need to explain herself.

“I mean since you’re the only person at this school who hasn’t called me a slut so far and we hate the same person so I figured—”

“Camila.” she cut her off. “Call me Cami.”

“Cami,” Alexa repeated. “Okay.”

“Relax amiga, if you hang around me, everyone will be way too afraid to call you a puta.”

That afternoon, Alexa ventured to the basement where the theatre was located. As she opened the door to the house, she was overwhelmed by the large population of fair skinned students. As she herself was half black, she stuck out like a sore thumb as she had all day that day.

There were several glances in her direction as she entered to room, most of them other girls staring curiously. She sat in the last row, hoping to remain out of sight.

As she sat, she bumped into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” she quickly apologized, glancing up at the stranger.

The cute stranger. The stranger whom she happened to recognize from her AP US History class that morning.

He had short brown hair, a clean-shaven, cute face and wasn’t particularly thin or muscular, a fair mix of both. At least, that’s what she could gather from under white dress shirt and tie.

He seemed to be fixated on her features as well—her light brown eyes, her curly jet black hair, her smile which was in full force.

“It’s okay.” he finally said, a smile forming. “I’m sure you’ve been getting much worse treatment all day.”

“You don’t even know.”

He offered his hand. “I’m Dan.”

“Alexa.”

“Alexa,” he paused, taking in her features once again. “I know I literally just met you, but is there any chance you would want to grab coffee after this? I know a place around the block.”

“Uh…” she paused, glancing around at the other students. “Just us?”

“Well… Yeah.”

She glanced down at her phone briefly, taking note of the time. She had promised Lin that she’d be home by 3, and it was already 2:45.

“Sure.”

Are you home yet, mija?

As Alexa moved above ground after the meeting had ended, she received a very telling text message from her father.

Hanging out with a friend. I’ll be home for dinner.

As soon as the message had sent she turned her phone on do not disturb, wanting to give Dan her full attention.

She did just that as they sat at the cafe around the corner.

“So where are you from?” he asked, once they had ordered.

“I was born in Florida, but I mostly grew up in rural Alabama.”

“Y—” he glanced at her briefly, waiting for the punchline of a joke. “Really?”

She nodded. “Exciting, I know. The south is already bad enough if you’re black let alone adopted, but I moved around a lot ended up in New York over the summer.”

“Oh, like, in foster homes?” he asked. “I’m sorry if that’s weird to ask—”

“I’m not ashamed of my past.” she crossed her legs under the table, her ballet flat grazing his leg. “Just grateful that my current foster parents stepped in when they did.”

“Right, yeah.” he smiled.

A waitress stopped at their table, setting their cups of coffee in front of them.

“My story isn’t nearly as interesting.” he started, taking a sip of his own. Just grew up in Williamsburg. Still in Williamsburg.”

“Oh, Williamsburg! That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to go there. I heard it’s supposed to have like… The best coffee in the world.”

“It definitely beats out this Manhattan crap.” he quipped, receiving a steady laugh in response.

“My mom mostly works mostly across the country as a producer and my dad’s a musician.” Dan continued. “He’s on tour pretty often, so he’s out a lot too. It’s just me and my fourteen-year-old sister Rebecka.”

“On tour, huh? Anyone I’ve heard of?” she added a touch of sugar to her coffee, using a spoon to stir it in.

“I don’t usually like to talk about it…” he started, blushing.

“It can’t be worse than being related to the guy who wrote Hamilton.” she pointed out with a smile.

“It’s uh… it’s George Abrams.”

Alexa nearly dropped the cup that she was carefully holding in both hands. “Your dad is George Abrams? He’s like a 90’s rock legend.”

Dan shrugged, still blushing. “He’s just my dad.”

“Right,” she nodded slowly. “No, that’s cool. I mean I can’t even begin to relate your experience to mine. You were kind of born with a famous parent. I obviously didn’t have the same experience.”

“You get used to it after a while. Although I will admit, some of the stuff that he has collected from his world tours over the years is insane. You should come by and see it one time.”

“That would be awesome.” Her hand instinctively reached for her curls, a move that typically only occurred when she was flirting.

Am I flirting? she asked herself, glancing carefully across the table at Dan. He was all smiles, his eyes fixated on her.

I guess it can’t hurt she concluded, placing her other hand flat on the table in hopes that he would take the bait. He did, reaching his own hand out to graze hers.

A shrill ringing sound emerged from her messenger bag and interrupted them.

“Sorry,” she pulled away, frustrated, digging for her phone.

It was Vanessa calling.

“What?” She demanded, obviously upset.

“I need you to pick up Sebastian from daycare.” Vanessa started, disregarding Alexa’s irate tone of voice.

“I’m in the middle of something.”

“Lex, I’m serious. I need your help here.” her mother insisted. “It would mean a lot if you could do this.”

“I just told you I’m in the middle of something! Have Lin do it.”

“He went to the theatre early. You told me you wanted to start relating to me more—this is a great way to start.”

Alexa rolled her eyes as she hung up, tossing her phone back into her bag.

“Is everything okay?” Dan asked, watching her put her things together.

“Not really… I have to go.”

“Oh,”

“Yeah, my foster dad and I are really close. With my foster mom, however… it’s a work in progress. I need to go pick up their son. I’m really sorry.” She pulled out her wallet, tossing a ten dollar bill on the table.

“It’s okay, I’ll just see you at school tomorrow.” he stood up.

“Yeah, of course.” She hugged him, kissing his cheek as she pulled back. “See you tomorrow!”

-

The next morning was an uncomfortable one. Alexa awoke nauseated, bloated, and triggered by the smell of breakfast cooking.

As she left her room that morning dressed for school and headed to the kitchen, an all too peppy Lin greeted her, singing at the top of his lungs.

“Goooooood mooooorrrrrniiiing, Gen! Happy second day of schooooooool!”

“Dude,” she groaned, setting her bag down on the table as she sat. “Please.”

“Wouuuuuld you like some breeeeaaakfast?” he offered, directing to the pan he was busy cooking with.

Alexa dry heaved, disgusted at the sight of bacon frying in the pan.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” “It’s the most important meal of the day!” he reminded her, holding up a piece of bacon with the pair of tongs in his hand.

“Seriously, I’m fine. That smells disgusting. My digestive system has been terrible lately.”

“Oh speaking of,” he paused, placing the bacon onto a plate nearby and turning the stove off. “Have you done your treatment since you got out of state care?”

Alexa groaned. “I did it just before I left.”

“That was almost two weeks ago.” he pointed out. “You’re supposed to do it twice a week.”

“I’ve been… busy.” she insisted. “Readjusting to life back at home and starting school… my immunodeficiency hasn’t been a priority.”

“It has to be. No wonder your stomach is so messed up.”

“My stomach is always messed up.” she pointed out.

“You know what I meant.” he paused, placing the bacon onto a plate nearby and turning the stove off.

“If you’re done lecturing me on my health, can I go to school now?”

“I’m not done,” he took a piece of bacon from the plate, taking a bite and offering some to her. She quickly refused. “It’s unrelated but important. Vanessa told me about yesterday—”

“You mean how she insisted that my go pick Sebastian was somehow going to improve our relationship?”

“Not the words I would’ve used, but yes.”

“I was busy. I was having coffee with a new friend and she kind of ruined it.”

“Lex, V is doing her best to relate to you, but it can be tough sometimes. You and I had plenty of time to get to know each other over the summer at the Public. Give her a chance to do the same. She’s a great mother.”

She shook her head. “I don’t do well with mom’s.”

“Did something happen in the past?” he curiously pressed.

“Nothing that I’m willing to discuss over bacon.”

“Vanessa’s nothing like that.” he insisted. “She’s the kindest, most genuine person I’ve met. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Alexa rolled her eyes.

“You gave me a chance and you said you’d be willing to do the same for her.”

“Maybe I’m not there yet.”

“You guys could bond over something you have in common.”

“Yeah, you always know how I talk about wanting to be an engineer.” she rolled her eyes again, the sarcasm thick.

“Hey, you and V both love frozen yogurt… maybe you could go get some together.”

She dry heaved again. “Could we not talk about food right now?”

Before he could respond, she rushed off to the bathroom.

Hunched over the toilet, she vomited once, followed by several dry heaves.

As she stood up, preparing to re-brush her teeth, she saw Lin standing in the doorway in the mirror.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a concerned look on his face.

“Never better.” she quipped, reaching for her toothbrush. “I think I’m gonna skip breakfast.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go to school today.” he suggested.”

“Lin, she started. “I’ve gone to school in much worse condition. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay…” He walked back down the hallway towards the kitchen. “But if you want to go home, just give me a call! And remember what I said about Vanessa!”

-

The train ride to school that morning was almost unbearable. Partially because of nausea, but also because certain muscles in her body had become overwhelmingly tender. Her messenger bag sat uncomfortably on her shoulder, heavily irritating her chest. By the time she had reached her destination, her symptoms had not improved. She slowly trudged to her locker only to find Dan waiting there to greet her.

“Hey,” he smiled before getting a closer look at her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I thi—” her sentence was cut short by the feeling of bile rising in the back of her throat. She rushed to the bathroom across the hall, locking herself in the handicapped stall before releasing the containments of her stomach—which wasn’t much—into the toilet. She hunched over, feeling the cramps in her torso worsen as her stomach contracted.

When it was over, she was on her knees, her hair carefully hung on the outside of the seat.

She sighed, standing up and moving towards the sink to wash her face.

When Dan saw her exit the bathroom, he offered his only unopened bottle of water. She graciously accepted.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

“I’m pretty sure like ninety percent of what just came out of me was stomach acid, but yeah I’m fine.”

“Good.” he pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket, the same one that Alexa had left on the table the day before. “Hamilton’s glad to hear that.” He handed the bill to her.

“What is this?”

“You dropped it yesterday.” he reminded her.

“Yeah… to pay for my coffee.”

“I took care of it. Here, you can keep it.”

“Dan…” She attempted to hand the bill back. “It’s fine. I can pay for my own coffee.”

“I know, but I took care of it.” He thought back to her rush to the bathroom earlier, eager to change the subject. “You should probably eat something before class. At least it’ll keep the stomach acid down.”

“Come with me?” she asked. Dan nodded and they made their way to the dining hall. Inside was an array of breakfast options that were certainly worthy of a hefty tuition. With it came an overwhelming aroma that made Alexa dry heave as soon as she stepped in the room. She stepped back out to avoid worsening the feeling.

“I think I’m just gonna go to class,” she suggested. “I’ll see you around.”

At noon, the cramps had seceded while the other symptoms worsened. While the other students entered the cafeteria for lunch, Alexa stood outside.

The smell was unbearable. She had no desire to get sick for a third time that day and gave in, headed to the nurse’s office.

She’d listed off her symptoms, the bloating, nausea and vomiting, the fatigue, the cramps, and the muscle tenderness. The nurse, a middle-aged white woman who managed to look consistently bitter, visibly rolled her eyes in response.

“Are you sexually active?” she asked, reaching into her desk.

“No.”

The nurse glanced up at her. “Miss, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

“I’m not,” she shot back. Being a virgin wasn’t exactly something she wanted to brag about, but it was true.

The nurse pulled a small cardboard box out of her desk, handing it to the teen.

“Go to the restroom, follow the instructions on the box, and bring it back when you’re done.”

The box clearly read Pregnancy Test across the front, which made it clear to Alexa that the nurse didn’t believe her.

“Whatever.” She scoffed, bringing the test with her.

In the tiny bathroom stall, she removed the test from its packaging and stared back it. It was taunting her with its simplicity.

She removed the cap on the far end, carefully sliding it between her legs and using it as instructed. The results were still pending as she capped the test and walked back to the nurse’s office.

A change on the display alerted them to the results, a plus sign.

“You’re pregnant.” the nurse announced unenthusiastically.

“This is a joke.” Alexa rolled her eyes back. “You clearly don’t know what you’re doing. I told you I’ve never had sex. That test is probably defective. It looks older than you.”

“I can’t say we’ve had a pregnant girl at Columbia Prep before, but I suppose there’s a first for everything. Especially considering your…” she paused. “Situation.”

“What situation?” Alexa demanded, glaring at the nurse. “That I’m black, that I was adopted two months ago, that I live in the heights or that my parents are Latinx and therefore unfit?”

The nurse ignored the question, unwilling to put her job at risk. “If you’re still feeling sick, I can call your parents and have one of them come get you. Just move to the cot over there.”

“Racist.” she muttered under her breath, angrily grabbing her bag as she made her way to the cot on the far end of the room.

-

“Okay let’s skip ahead to light cue 145, sound cue 11, and stage cue 78.”

At the Richard Rodgers theatre, the cast and crew were changing up some of the show’s lighting cues a few hours before the afternoon matinee at 2 pm. The stage manager was hard at work, directing everyone through the motions so that they could enter the correct cues into their system.

The actors were still, silent onstage waiting for direction while the lighting technicians were quietly discussing the correct cues upstairs. In the midst of a silence, there was a loud ringing noise, someone’s cell phone.

Tommy Kail, working alongside the show’s stage manager, glanced up at the stage for the source of the sound. “Who didn’t turn their phone off?”

All of the actors onstage glanced at one another briefly. Once Lin realized it was his phone, he blushed.

“Oh shit, my bad!” he pulled his phone out. “That was me.”

Hesitating for a moment, he glanced at the call not recognizing the strange number and picked it up. “Hello?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Take five, everyone. Lin has a very important phone call to take.”

Everyone else left their positions.

“Sorry, who am I speaking with?”

The voice of an older white woman greeted him, making it clear that she was unsure of how to properly pronounce his name and wasn’t going to bother to try.

“This is Lin-Manuel Miranda, who is this?”

“I’m the nurse at Columbia Prep. Your daughter Alexa is in the infirmary with me and she needs to be picked up. She’s been vomiting all day and—”

The nurse paused. While it may have been practical to inform him of the pregnancy test, she wasn’t sure it was her place to do so. From the other side of the room, Alexa sat up from her curled fetal position. She waited, holding her breath, to see if the nurse would say anything.

“Well, she’s not feeling well.”

“Is she okay?” he demanded, the concern in his voice catching the attention of those in the theatre. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“No sir, not mentally. She’s just physically ill.”

“Oh,” he took a sigh of relief that he wasn’t proud of. The fact that he was so sure she’d had a mental breakdown that involved another student getting hurt was nothing if not slightly unsettling. He was grateful that wasn’t the case. “So she’s with you?”

“Can I talk to him?” Alexa demanded, interrupting their conversation.

“She wants to talk to you.” the nurse announced as Alexa slowly walked back toward the desk.

“Hey, Lin.”

“Hey kiddo, still not feeling well?”

“I must have a 24-hour virus or something. My hormones are off.” she glared at the nurse. “I think I should sleep it off.“

“I’ll come and get you.” he offered, already headed to his dressing room to pick up his things.

“What? No, you’re at work. I’ll just sleep in the nurse’s office until school ends. You shouldn’t leave, it’s too important.”

“Too late, I’m already leaving.” He threw everything he needed into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder and heading toward the exit. “Stay put. I’ll be there soon.”

There was a number of questioning looks he received on his way out.

“Lex is sick.” he explained to the stage manager, who seemed suddenly concerned.

“Oh, is she…” he paused, pretending to scratch his arms.

“Oh, no.” he was quick to reassure them that this wasn’t a mental breakdown similar to the one she’d had a little over a week beforehand. “She’s just been throwing up all day. I’m gonna go get her. Put Javi in for the rest of the run through. I should be back for the matinee.”

Lin opted for a cab uptown, arriving promptly and heading to the infirmary to find his daughter curled up on a cot at the far end of the room.

When she heard him come in, a look of concern crossed her face.

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you I was coming.”

Alexa glanced at the nurse, who seemed confused at their exchange. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t coming because work is more important?”

“We never agreed on that because it isn’t true,” he whispered back. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“But…” she seemed desperate for answers. “Work is always more important.”

It was clear that something had triggered her, though Lin wasn’t sure what it was.

“Little girls who stay home from school get punished.” the thought passed through her consciousness as if she’d heard it yesterday, though she hadn’t heard the phrase in years.

Suddenly she backed away from him, up against the wall.

“I’m fine. I’m not sick. I’ll go to class. I’m sorry for making you come all the way over—”

“Hey,” he sat beside her on the cot, trying to interrupt her thoughts for a moment. “You didn’t make me come here. I wanted to come, okay? I’ll take you home and you can sleep it off.”

As expected, her medication helped her calm down a lot faster than she would typically be able to on her own. She paused for a moment.

“I promise, nothing bad will happen to you,” he reassured her. “We’ll go home, you can get some sleep and hopefully you’ll start to feel better.”

“You promise?” she pressed, still hesitant.

“I promise.”

She grabbed his hand for support, following him out of the infirmary and to the cab waiting outside.

“Just hang out here. I’ll make you some tea.” As they got home a few minutes later, Lin helped her over to the couch, putting a blanket over the length of her body before moving away to the kitchen. She had calmed down significantly on the car ride home, taking long calming breaths to ease her anxiety.

“So did the nurse say exactly what was wrong with you?” he questioned from the kitchen.

“Uh,” Alexa paused. While she was certain she wasn’t pregnant, having never had sex, she wasn’t too open to the idea of sharing everything that happened with him. “Nothing useful.” she finally said. “Just offered to call you.”

“You’re right, that isn’t very useful.” He placed the full kettle on the stove, before turning on the burner and returning to the couch to sit beside her. “Maybe we should take you back to the doctor.”

Alexa rolled her eyes. “Hopefully they’re better at their job than that shitty nurse is.”

“Are you hungry? Did you eat at school?”

She shook her head before placing a pillow underneath it to protect her neck. “The smell of everything made me want to vomit.”

“Hold on,” he stood up, headed back to the kitchen. “I think Vanessa bought saltine crackers last week.”

Digging through the pantry, he found a small box of saltines in the back with the package half empty. He grabbed the whole thing, handing it to her.

“That’s all we have, but I’ll go pick up some more—”

Alexa made a noise of protest, turning onto her stomach. “You should go back to work. That’s more important.”

The kettle began to whistle, calling Lin to attention before he could respond.

“Lex, do you want anything in your tea?”

“A spoonful of honey please.”

“Got it.” He prepared it as requested before carefully handing it to her.

She sat up and took a sip, sighing, content.

“This helps a lot.”

“I’m glad.” he kissed her forehead. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pick up more saltines?”

“Go back to work. I’ll be fine here.”

“Okay… but call me if you need anything.”

“Phone’s on,” she assured him. “I’m probably just gonna take a nap. I’m exhausted.”

“Alright well… V’s going to some work event later and I’ll be on tonight, so we’ll probably both be back around midnight. Unless you need me to come back—”

“Oh my god, Lin, go back to rehearsal.”

Lin smirked, picking up his bag and heading out of the apartment.

-

On her own, the silence was deafening. She could feel the fatigue overwhelming her, but sleep was far off. On paper, she had almost every symptom of early pregnancy. She never really had consistent periods, didn’t she need that to get pregnant?

No. No way. She couldn’t be pregnant because she was a virgin. Virgins didn’t get pregnant. Well, except for that one tv show, but that was fake and didn’t count.

The test I took must’ve been defective she assured herself. If I took another test, there’s no way it would come up positive.

That reassurance, however, did not help her get to sleep any faster.

She threw the blanket off.

“Fucking fine.” she groaned and took a large swig of tea from the mug before picking up her messenger bag and heading out.

The nearest pharmacy was five blocks away, a small business on the corner. She headed in, gravitating toward the refrigerated aisle. She grabbed a large can of Arizona tea—only a dollar, respectively—and left in search of her other purchase.

There they were, at eye level between the tampons and the condoms—pregnancy tests. She examined them carefully, reading each label and what special feature they boasted.

She could feel her heart pounding, her palms sweaty.

This is ridiculous she thought to herself. I’m not pregnant.

One box, in particular, caught her eye, a test boasting its ability to show how far along you were. It came in a pack of two, which she grabbed and headed to the register.

Behind the counter, the foreign older gentleman glared at her as she approached with her items.

“You’re too young to buy this.” His thick accent intruded her overwhelming thoughts.

“There’s no age limit on buying pregnancy tests.” she shot back.

“A young body like yours is too valuable to carry a child.” he insisted. “You could do much better with it elsewhere.”

“Do you want my money or not you fucking pervert?” A wad of cash in hand, Alexa glared at the man behind the counter as he placed her items in a small black plastic bag.

“Twenty-four fifty,” he announced, taking the twenty-five dollars she handed him. He passed two quarters back, watching her carefully as she left the store.

Before heading down the street, she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her skirt—her uniform still on from her time at school—opening Spotify. A quick typed search for In the Heights brought up the album of Lin’s first broadway show, a production she’d virtually never heard of. Cautiously, she tapped the first song, placed her headphones over her ears, and took the slow route home, open Arizona can in hand.

The song was still playing as she got home, tossing the now empty can in the trash. She made her way to the bathroom, the box burning a hole into her palm

She tossed the instructions aside for later, sitting on the toilet seat and carefully positioning the test between her legs.

Once it was over, she recapped the test placing it flat on the counter. It was a three-minute wait.

I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant. I command myself not to be pregnant.

The test flashed a result on its screen, a tiny display that read

Pregnant

2+

Alexa dropped the test, her heart pounding. This couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of dream.

She grabbed the instructions, skimming them again, desperately seeking answers.

Under her result read a paragraph about conception, how the result had concluded that she conceived three or more weeks prior.

“What the fuck,” she managed, trying not to hyperventilate. She pulled her phone out, stopping the music and pulling up her calendar in the hope that a date would jog her memory of something. Perhaps an artificial insemination that she’d agreed to in an exhausted state—being a surrogate mother was a well-paying gig nowadays.

She scrolled back to two weeks prior. Nothing. Three weeks. Nothing.

“This makes no sense,” she said aloud. “There is no way I could possibly be pregnant. I’ve never had se—.”

There it was, a Thursday four weeks back. There was an event marked on her calendar entitled:

Party tonight at CP!

Memories flashed through her mind of the following day, where she was offered a Plan B pill at the hospital, took it, left to shower, and promptly got sick only minutes later giving it virtually no chance to enter her system.

She could feel the breath leave her lungs all at once, her mind going numb.

She had never considered this.

It wasn’t something one considered after having been through what she had.

She dropped her phone—or rather, it fell out of her hands—landing on the tiled bathroom floor. She put the test into the garbage can, covering it with the other items to keep it out of sight.

Her instincts brought her to the kitchen, where she easily bypassed the child lock on the liquor cabinet. She pulled out an unopened bottle of whiskey, an unopened bottle of vodka, and dug through the freezer for a tequila bottle stashed away.

The three bottles in front of her on the counter, she debated which one would be the easiest to chug. She opted for the vodka, popping the cap and downing the bitter liquid. She hesitated for a moment, the burn in the back of her throat causing her to cough, but continued anyway. It would be unpleasant, sure, but it was the easiest thing she could think of to get rid of the thing that was supposedly growing inside of her. Within minutes, the bottle was empty.

The other two bottles stared back at her, making her feel self-conscious. She left the kitchen, pacing the length of the entire house before returning to the same two bottles. Her hand reached for the empty vodka bottle, holding it for a moment before smashing it against the granite countertop. It shattered, leaving glass everywhere and cutting her palm open.

“Fuck,” she winced, clutching the palm to her chest. The blood quickly spread to her white polo, a fact that she didn’t seem to notice as she reached for the whiskey.

Twisting the cap open, she felt nothing as the bottle reached her lips, swallowing as fast as she could. The whiskey was stronger, more demanding. She could feel her throat screaming for a break, but she pressed on until the bottle was empty. The dangers of her decisions were far from her mind as she dropped the whiskey bottle on the tile floor. It didn’t shatter like she hoped it would.

She could feel the alcohol coursing through her as she paced the house again, her hand leaving a trail of blood as she walked.

Returning to the counter, the last bottle sat, waiting for her. She pulled the cork out, taking a swig.

It came then suddenly, like a truck hitting a brick wall. The effects of her binge drinking arrived hard and fast, knocking her down. She managed to pull the tequila off of the counter with her, the glass shattering on the floor beside her as she lay, numb.

-

“Do you think she’s allergic to something?”

Lin shook his head. “That can’t be it because she didn’t eat anything this morning.”

Vanessa held her sleeping son close, waiting for Lin to pull out his keys to open their front door. They were greeted by an empty couch, a surprise to both of them. Lin glanced at his watch.

“It’s after midnight. She’s probably asleep.” he concluded.

“I’m gonna put Sebastian to bed,” she whispered, starting toward the hallway. As she passed the kitchen, however, she paused, speechless, staring at the ground.

“What’s up, V?” he moved to her side, curious as to what she was so preoccupied with. His jaw nearly hit the ground at the sight of the kitchen floor.

Alexa was there, unconscious, broken glass and spots of blood surrounding her. Her hand was obviously impaled, a large puddle of blood surrounding it.

“Holy shit.”

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